


Easy to Remember

by halfmast



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Sibling Bonding, Sisterly bonding, family/gen focused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmast/pseuds/halfmast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family first. It's easy to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post S3 fic. Picking up where we left off...

 

 

 

It’s three days later when Fiona really picks up on it.

 

 

Too long really, but she’s had a lot on her mind—things shifting under her feet, the shape of her world twisting as new things slip into it and other things slip away and isn’t until a quiet Saturday morning, when things are feeling steady again, that she blinks and realizes she’s been missing a red-head at the breakfast table.

 

 

“Where’d you say Ian went?” She asks Debbie, picking up bowls half-full with soppy cereal and warming milk.

 

 

“I didn’t.” The reply is short, not exactly unfriendly, but stiffer than her little sister used to be—her not-so-little sister.

 

 

“I thought – ”

 

 

“Carl said he went on a ROTC thing,” Debbie elaborates, cleaning the spilled cereal and drops of milk from the table top with a rag.

 

 

“It’s winter break,” Fiona notes vaguely, setting things into the sink and turning the water on. There’s something nagging at her for a moment, just flickering at the edges of her thoughts.

 

 

“Are we getting a Christmas tree this year?” Debbie wonders.

 

 

“What?” She blinks, looking up from the faucet.

 

 

“Christmas,” Debbie enunciates, “Are we getting a tree this year?”

 

 

“Uh yeah, yeah,” she nods, “Sure, Debs. We’ll figure it out.” It’s not a real affirmative, even though she’s just agreed; it’s a we’ll see, a maybe, and by the way Debbie’s mouth pinches a little at the corners, Fiona knows she gets that message.

 

 

“Has he called?” Fiona wonders, her mind going back to Ian for a moment.

 

 

“Who?”

 

 

“Ian,” she says, shutting the water off and grabbing a dish towel. “I don’t remember him mentioning anything about this…”

 

 

Debbie shrugs, “Would you really remember?”  

 

 

She can’t exactly insist that she would, not quite this month; not with Jimmy disappearing and Mike’s kisses hot on her mouth and a ribbon cutting for her at her very own job.

 

 

She blows out a breath, “Has he called?” She asks again.

 

 

“Not that I know of.” Debbie closes up the boxes of cereal, setting them back on top of the refrigerator (and when did she get tall enough for that?), “Ask Lip,” she continues.

 

 

Fiona nods, Lip would know; Lip. “Have you seen him this morning?”

 

 

“No.” Debbie ties up the bag of bread, shoves it the refrigerator, starts wiping crumbs from the counter. She doesn’t look at Fiona, doesn’t say anything more, and Fiona’s gut twists a little.

 

 

“Debs,” she says a quiet sigh.

 

 

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” she adds, not looking at her sister. She shoves the toaster into a corner, getting it out the way until tomorrow morning, grabs the tub of butter and turns back to the refrigerator.

 

 

Fiona touches her shoulder then, holding her in place, “Hey,” she says softly, “You okay?”

 

 

“Of course,” Debbie says tightly, “Why wouldn’t I be?” She lets the door of the refrigerator fall shut as she turns on the balls of her feet and leaves Fiona in the kitchen alone.

 

 

Fiona watches after her, the way Debbie puts a hand to the banister before swinging herself up the stairs; listens to the sound of her shoes on the wooden steps and presses her lips together when the sound of a door echoes just a little more loudly than necessary. Her little sister wasn’t so little anymore and that kind of terrified her; more changes, more shifting.

 

 

She shakes the feeling away though; glances around the kitchen at what else needs to be done; starts with the dishes in the sink and then makes her way over to the washing machine, the piles of laundry stacked near it, on it, scattered around it. There’s that flutter of Jimmy’s face (Steve, then) whenever she uses it, even now years later, that faint wisp of incredulity and excitement that filled those first few weeks. She sighs now though, just more thoughts and feelings to shake away.

 

 

Fiona’s filling the detergent compartment when it hits her; it’s winter break. Since when is there ROTC during winter break?

 

She freezes mid-movement, thinking back; trying to remember if there had been last year, trying to remember if Ian had said anything, trying to remember what the last thing she’d talked to Ian about was—her mind draws a blank though and she sets the detergent down.

 

She takes the steps two at a time, taps on the boys’ bedroom door as she opens it, “Lip - ” the room is empty though. There’s a dread pooling in her gut now, strangely, for no real reason—except she can’t remember talking to Lip much lately either, not even Carl, and there’s a crushing sense suddenly that she’s missed something.

 

It makes her breath catch a little and she turns back around. She finds Carl in the yard, one of Debbie’s dolls stuck on the end power drill, his eyes alight with amusement as it spins around and around every time he presses the trigger.

 

“She know you took that?” Fiona wonders, leaning her elbows on the splintering wooden railing of the porch.

 

Carl shrugs expansively, a clear no, but grins a little as the doll whirrs around in a circle front of him.

 

Fiona smiles a little too, “You seen Lip?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Know where he could be?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Put the power tools and extension cords _away_ when you’re done with them,” she tells him, turning back inside, “I don’t want’m lying around the yard, Carl.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he calls back at her and she hears the whirr of the drill again, can see his smile without even looking back.

 

At least one of her siblings hadn’t changed while she’d been looking away.

 

 

 

II

 

 

 

She finds Lip (at the Alibi of all places, but one brother at a time). She tugs him outside, into the winter air and pale sunlight, and it takes them all of five minutes to realize Ian can’t be at an ROTC retreat; and the way Lip’s face pinches has Fiona’s gut twisting again.

 

“Tell me,” she says lowly, reaching a hand out to grab the front of his shirt; to keep him there, “Tell me what’s going on.”

 

“It’s not my shit to talk about,” he protests.

 

“Where is he?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know, but he’s probably doing something fucking stupid,” Lip grinds out, voice clipped as he shoves her hand away; gets a cigarette out.

 

Fiona blows out a breath, it’s Jimmy all over again (and Monica too), disappearing without a word. “Okay, alright… we’ll find him. You saw him Thursday?”

 

Lip nods, shifts on his feet a little. “I’ll take care of it,” he says.

 

And Fiona grits her teeth, “No. You won’t,” she says flatly, “You’ll tell me what I need to know and I’ll take care of it. You’re drunk and you’ve got a decision to make—it’s on top of the refrigerator and has a Massachusetts postmark on it.”

 

“Jesus Fiona, I got the goddamn high school diploma, didn’t I? Lay the fuck off.” Lip stamps the cigarette out with his boot, only half smoked. “I got this.”

 

“Got _what?”_ She demands, “What’s Ian mixed up in?”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Just tell me and I’ll - ”

 

“And you’ll _what?_ Where’s Jimmy, Fiona? Moving to _Michigan_ are you? You can’t even fix your own goddamn shit, you’re gonna handle Ian’s now?”

 

It stings and she glares back, “Because how you’ve been handling your life lately s’been fucking stellar right? You hopping back into Mandy now that Karen’s gone, Lip?”

 

They scowl at each other for another beat, sirens in the distance and cold wind whipping around them and then, abruptly, the anger dissipates.

 

“ _Fuck,”_ Lip breathes out, rubbing a hand through his hair, stepping back, “We’re shit at life.” He says, mouth quirking at the edges.

 

Fiona blows out a breath too, scrubbing a hand over her face. She gives Lip a small faint smile, agreeing with him before sighing, “It’s not a wonder he wouldn’t come to us, to me…” she pauses, “Did he come to you?”

 

“Nah,” Lip shakes his head, gets another cigarette out. He tilts his chin, starts walking, and Fiona falls into step with him a moment later.

 

“I know he was having… issues though,” Lip admits, “With… this fucktoid of a guy.”

 

“A guy,” Fiona echoes, accepting the cigarette from Lip’s fingers and taking a drag, “Which guy?”

 

“Can’t say.”

 

“Can’t say because you don’t know or…?”

 

“Just can’t say,” Lip offers. “I’ll ask around, I’ll find where he went,” he tells her firmly, his voice steady.

 

She passes the cigarette back, “Okay,” she concedes, “Keep me in the loop on this one,” she adds quietly, “I don’t like that it’s been days since any of talked to him, that can’t happen… we need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

 

  
Lip nods a little, understanding, keeps his gaze ahead. He passes her the cigarette after another beat and she takes it, doesn’t say anything more.

 

 

 

 

 

II

 

 

 

Fiona’s managed to coax Debbie out of her room with the lure of baking chocolate chip cookies for tomorrow; she has Carl sitting at the counter building the Sears tower out of legos ( _yes you can blow it up in the yard tomorrow morning_ ), has Liam in his high-chair with a plastic dinosaur in his hands, waving it at them and making it roar playfully, when the front door swings open, slamming back against the wall.

 

 

For a moment, they startle in the kitchen and then Carl is off his stool and reaching for the baseball ball bat hung on the hook on the wall behind the refrigerator; and the rolling pin is in Debbie’s hand, the frying pan in Fiona’s as the three of them move into the living room together.

 

 

It’s Lip who charges past them towards the downstairs bathroom though, his head tilted back and a hand to his nose, blood clearly visible between his fingers.

 

 

“Shit, Lip! What happened?” Fiona hisses, lowering the frying pan.

 

 

“Whoa, your face is broken…!” Carl points out, grinning and moving to follow him into the bathroom, dropping the bat with a thunk on the floor.

 

 

Lip slams the door before the younger boy can step inside though and Carl kicks at it hard, “Fuck you!”

 

 

“Carl,” Fiona snaps. “Language.”

 

 

“It’s not broken.”

 

 

The response doesn’t come from Lip though. It’s Mandy Milkovich, standing just inside the kitchen, holding Lip’s jacket. “His nose,” she elaborates, “It’s not broken, I checked.”

 

 

“What the fuck happened?” Fiona demands after they all stare at Mandy for a moment.

 

 

Mandy picks at the threads of the jacket, shrugging her shoulders, “He got in Mickey’s face. It got rough.”

 

 

Fiona glares at her for another before looking away, “Debbie can you - ”

 

“Yeah, I got it,” the girl says; she checks on the cookies in the oven and then gets the first aid kit from one of the cabinets, setting it on the counter and digging around through it as Fiona knocks on the door to the bathroom, “Lip,” she calls, “Come out here, let me see…”

 

 

There’s no response and Fiona glances away, “Carl, put that bat back where you found it, would you?” She adds, then taps at the bathroom door again, “Lip…?”

 

 

The door opens a second later, Lip’s dabbing at his face with a wet cloth. There’s a bruise forming on his left cheek too, besides the blood, and Fiona winces a little, touching his arm lightly and motioning towards the table. “What’s going on?” She asks, reaching over as she passes Mandy to snatch the jacket out of her hands, “You can go now,” she says to the other girl evenly.

 

 

Mandy’s lips tighten into a straight line, but she doesn’t say anything; doesn’t leave either.

 

 

“I know where the fuck Ian fucked off to,” Lip grunts, dropping down into a chair.

 

 

“Here,” Debbie says quietly, setting alcohol swabs on the table, “It’ll get the blood off better.” She pauses, “Is Ian okay?”

 

 

“Thanks, Debs,” Lip gives her a tiny smile, pausing before he adds, “Yeah. He’s… fine.” There’s more to that, it’s obvious in the tilt of his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything more. 

 

 

“So who won?” Carl wonders, sitting on the table, his feet on the chair. “Your face looks like you lost,” he adds a little gleefully, “You’ve got blood on your shirt.”

 

 

“Carl,” Fiona swats at his feet, “Your ass goes on the chair not the table,” she reminds him, looks to Lip waiting for an answer, “There a reason you got in Micky Milkovich’s face tonight?”

 

 

Lip shrugs, “Had to be done.”

 

 

“I heard this one time in juvie he got a lighter from one of the guards and - “

 

 

“Shut-up,” Debbie interrupts, flicks at the back of Carl’s head with her fingers. “Where is he? Ian? If he’s okay? Is he really on an ROTC thing? Is he gonna be back soon?”

 

 

The litany of questions is met with silence and Fiona tenses a little more. Lip hasn’t actually said where Ian is; hasn’t said much at all—and Mandy’s still standing statue still in her kitchen. Not good signs, Fiona takes a deep breath.

 

 

“Hey, why don’t you two start getting ready for bed,” she smiles, “We’ll try the cookies before lights out and save the rest for tomorrow.

 

 

“I wanted to be the one to take them out of the oven,” Debbie points out, frowning a little and then looking at Lip again, “Was the ROTC thing a lie?” She asks.

 

 

“Debs, it’s getting late,” Fiona tries, “Pajamas, okay…”

 

 

“He’s uh… with the Army, yeah,” Lip says, wincing a little as he touches a reddening scrape on his chin, “Don’t worry.”

 

 

“We don’t have school tomorrow,” Carl points out.

 

 

“Yeah, I know,” Fiona smiles a little, reaching over to tug Carl off the table and then smooth her hand over his hair, “I just have to ream Lip out for getting into a fight and I don’t want to do it in front of you guys,” she points out.

 

 

Debbie smirks a little, looking more at ease now that she knows Ian is okay, “Lip’s always getting into a fight.”

 

 

“Part of the problem,” Fiona smiles. “Go on, I’ll call you both when the cookies are ready… take Liam with you.”

 

 

“Okay,” Debbie relents, pushing Carl towards the steps and then going to get Liam, “Don’t forget them. They only need five more minutes.”

 

Carl turns around to push back, yelling, “Don’t touch me!” Even as he side-steps and makes his way to the steps.

 

 

Debbie rolls her eyes, adjusting her hold on Liam, and a beat later they’re both upstairs, their feet echoing on the floorboards.

 

 

“Okay,” Fiona says after a long beat of silence; ensuring that three are upstairs, she leans back in her chair. She looks at Lip for a beat and then at Mandy for another, before resting her gaze on her brother’s face, “What’s going on?”

 

 

“We have a problem - ”

 

 

“She doesn’t know, does she?” Mandy’s question is directed at Lip; her voice caught partway between incredulous and superiority.

 

 

It sets Fiona’s teeth on edge and she decidedly ignores Mandy. “Where’s Ian?” She asks, focusing. “You know where he is?”

 

 

Lip’s gaze moves to Mandy’s face a moment, his blue eyes hard, quelling; and Fiona gives herself a moment to wonder what the fuck Mandy Milkovich is talking about that could get her brother to give her a look like that, but then Lip’s blowing out a breath, tilting his back and blowing out a loud frustrated breath, “ _Fuck_ ,” he growls out and the hand he has resting on the table near the used alcohol swabs turns into a fist.

 

 

“Lip,” Fiona snaps, punching him in the knee. “Where is he? Why didn’t you just go get him…?”

 

 

“Because. _Because_ going to _get him_ would royally fuck up the rest of his goddamn life. Fuck him. _Fuck. Him._ ” Lip snaps back. “He’s a fucking moron.”

 

 

“Lip,” Mandy’s voice is softer now, careful; like she’s defending Ian.

 

 

And for a moment Fiona’s reminded of the most redeeming quality she ever sees in Mandy Milkovich—the girl has Ian’s back. Always. Lip’s too. She’s frowning a second later though, because, “Could _one_ of you two tell me where the fuck Ian is?”

 

 

Lip takes a deep breath, “Fort Leonard Wood in St. Robert, Missouri.”

 

 

“O _kay_ ,” she drawls, “So there is an ROTC retreat…” she says carefully, the slightest thread of hopefulness in her voice; but of course there isn’t, of course it’s worse than that—there’s blood on Lip’s face and a warning in Mandy’s eyes and _of course_ there’s no ROTC retreat, “Lip…” she says a little tremulously.

 

 

Lip’s mouth quirks up at the corners, humorlessly, his gaze meeting Fiona’s, “ _Lip Gallagher_ is at basic combat training in Missouri.”

 

 

It takes her a second, maybe two, to process that; to realize what her brother is telling her, “No,” she says reflexively, “Ian wouldn’t- Ian’s not- he wouldn’t _do_ that. He’s not _stupid_ enough to do that.”

 

 

“Apparently he is,” Lip contradicts. “He’s a fuckin’ shithead. It’s been a week. They’re going to figure it out in the next _day_ or so, by the end of the week,” Lip says frustratedly, “They _fingerprint_ you when you join the goddamn fucking United States _Army_.”

 

 

“Ian’s smart, maybe he found a way around that,” Mandy murmurs.

 

 

“Like he’s using enough brain cells to be smart about this,” Lip snaps, “He got off the fucking smart train months ago, fucking a _year_ ago if you ask me.”

 

 

“Wait, wait,” Fiona stands up, turning on Mandy, “You knew about this?” She turns back to Lip without waiting for an answer, “You went to see Mandy because- “ she turns back to Mandy; her heart racing and her thoughts tumbling through her mind too quickly, something making sense and not making sense all at the same time, “You _knew_ and you didn’t say anything - ”

 

 

“Hey screw you!” Mandy hisses back, “I don’t owe you any-fuckin-thing. Ian came to me because he couldn’t talk to anyone in this shit hole about his problems – ”

 

“Hey, eh!” Lip gets to his feet, “Enough.” He glares at Mandy, “That is not what happened,” he says flatly, “Ian didn’t talk to us about it because he _knows_ its a fucking demented thing to do.” 

 

 

“Right, that. _Or_ he knows that no one in this house  - ”

 

 

Whatever Mandy is about to say is cut off by the shrill beeping of the oven; Fiona jumps a little, “Fuck, the cookies,” she says lowly, rushing forward to get them out of the oven, “Fuck, fuck,” she breathes, but it’s not the cookies she’s seeing as she gets the oven mitt and removes the tray careful; it’s Ian’s face, Ian in prison for defrauding the US government.

 

 

“Stop acting like no one here gives a fuck about him,” Lip continues, his anger directed at Mandy, “I fucking _asked_ what was going on when he turned into goddammed stepford GI Joe overnight and- _fuck_ ,” he says under his breath, cutting himself off, “I should have known he’d do something stupid, I should have known, he was all fucked up in the head one night and then woke up fine—fuck.”

 

 

“I can’t believe this,” Fiona breathes, setting the singed cookies on the counter, running fingers through her hair, “Holy shit.”

 

 

“Yeah,” Lip mutters, moving past Mandy towards the refrigerator. He gets three beers out, sets them on the counter, glancing at Mandy for a moment.

 

 

Fiona takes one, uncapping it and taking a long swallows, “Fuck,” she says quietly into the silent kitchen.

 

 

Mandy takes a beer carefully, looking down at it for a moment, “He needed to get away.”

 

 

“There are other ways of doing that,” Lip says tightly, uncapping his own beer, “Ways that don’t involve fucking up _both_ our lives for a piece of shit that married someone else.”

 

 

Mandy lifts an eyebrow slightly, “You’re one to talk.”

 

 

“This isn’t _about_ me,” Lip snaps at her, his gaze darkening on her face, “And you don’t fucking talk about Karen, you don’t reference her, you don’t goddamn _think_ about her in my face, you get that? Not ever again. That’s the only way - ” he stops, because the last thing this conversation is about is him and Mandy Milkovich. Fucking Milkoviches.

 

 

Mandy presses her lips together, stares at Lip hard, but doesn’t push.

 

 

“What are you talking about?” Fiona says on a rough sigh, “What does Karen have to do with this? Debbie said she left with Jody like a week ago.”

 

 

“She did. She has nothing to do with this,” Lip replies, ending that end of the conversation, “ We need to figure out a way to get Ian out of the army.”

 

 

“I don’t understand why he’d do something like this,” Fiona murmurs, “It doesn’t make any sense. He has one year left of school… he’s been interested in the military since grade school…” she shakes her head a little, “I thought he was going to try for West Point… when did that change?” It’s a general question, but her gaze finds Lip’s a moment after she’s said the words, waiting.

 

 

Lip shakes his head minutely, “I don’t know - ”

 

 

“Yes you do,” Fiona cuts him off, “You know exactly when it changed. You just said, you knew something was going on, you knew he might try something stupid…” she pauses, “He was playing at sick the last week of school before break… I just thought he was tired, I…” she trails off, because she hadn’t followed-up on it, hadn’t pushed, and now Ian was gone.

 

 

“It’s not your fucking responsibility to fix all our problems, Fiona,” Lip says roughly, anger slipping into his voice. “This is on Ian.”

 

 

“Lip - ”

 

 

“He did this knowing it was fucking stupid and - ”

 

 

“Why?” Fiona asks again, but he’s not going to tell her; she knows that even as she asks. Not if it was Ian’s secret. “There’s a guy. You said he’d been having issues with some guy…” it comes together then, pieces flitting through her mind, and it doesn’t make any sense _at all_ except for how it fits, how the puzzle pieces fit and the picture forms.

 

 

“Fiona…” Lip says warningly.

 

 

“He had to get away because of a guy,” she says carefully, “A guy that married someone else…” she purses her lips, lets her gaze slide to Mandy for a moment, “Lip got in Mickey’s face tonight, huh?” She says evenly.

 

 

“Yeah,” Mandy says, matches Fiona’s even tone, “He did.”

 

 

It’s such a fucking joke, _both_ her little brother’s fucking Milkoviches that Fiona can only stare for another moment; before she takes a deep breath and turns away, rubbing a hand through her hair again. The kitchen is silent again and Fiona stares down at the cookies, faintly burnt at the edges, but cool now. She should call Debbie and Carl, let them have one, before sending them up to brush their teeth.

 

 

“We need to get him back here.” She says instead, she looks over at Lip, “Think you can find a way to do that won’t get you both fucked for life?”

 

 

“I’m gonna try,” he says softly, shrugging one shoulder, holding her gaze; it’s what they do.

 

 

“I’ll make coffee…” she says, her voice quiet. She hesitates for a beat before adding, “There’s clean clothes in the dryer if you want something to sleep in,” she tells Mandy, “I’m going to check on the kids…” she flashes them both a wan smile, “Don’t have sex or hump on anything in the kitchen.”

 

 

“Fuck you,” Lip returns, his voice quiet too, a little smile curving his mouth.

 

 

Mandy waits until Fiona’s disappeared up the steps before she shakes her head a little, “I can’t believe she didn’t fucking know…”

 

 

“ _You_ didn’t know,” Lip says with a shrug.

 

 

“Yeah, but…”

 

 

“I watch out for Ian,” he says, bringing a beer to his lips, “Grab the laptop, would ya?” He tells her, moving towards the living room. “I got reading to do…”

 

 

Mandy hesitates for a beat and then gets the computer, follows him into the living room. The house is quiet at this hour, it always is; there’s a routine in the Gallagher house. She hands Lip the computer, but doesn’t sit when he takes it, doesn’t move.

 

 

“What?” He asks finally when she’s been standing by the sofa for a good minute.

 

 

“You want me to stay?”

 

 

“Fiona said you could.”

 

 

“That’s not what I just fucking asked you.”

 

 

“Do whatever the hell you want to do, Mandy, jesus.” He huffs, rolling his eyes.

 

 

She glares at him, the heat in it so hard he can feel it bounce off the top of his head without even looking. “You’re a dick,” she snaps at him, turning and heading for his front door.

 

 

He should probably stop her; there’s a part of him that wants to stop her, maybe. But for the most part, he doesn’t have time for it, for her and everything fucking her again would mean, doesn’t feel like making time for it right now (it’d take too much time, take too _much_ from him), so he lets her go; doesn’t even flinch when the door slams hard enough to shake the wall. He focuses his gaze and his attention on the web browser instead; on enlisting in the military and how to fucking back out of it.

 

 

 

II

 

.tbc.


	2. Chapter 2

Fiona knocks on the door lightly, then opens it a crack, “Hey, Debs,” she says lightly, smiling a little, “Can we talk?” 

 

Debbie’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, a book on her lap, “Sure,” she says with a little shrug, looking up. “Did something new happen? With Ian?” 

 

“No, no,” Fiona smiles a little; they’d done as much research as they could last night. She’d gone to work in the morning and when she’d come home this afternoon, Lip had had a plan for her. She kept it to herself though, didn’t feel like adding to Debbie’s plate just yet, “Lip’s still working on it, he thinks there’s something we can do though… I’m going to send a couple faxes tomorrow from work, see where it gets us.” 

 

Debbie nods, “Okay,” she says, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, “So…? What do you want?” 

 

Fiona smiles a little, “Can’t we just talk for a second?” 

 

“All your seconds are usually accounted for,” Debbie points out. 

 

Fiona leans her shoulder against the little girl’s, “Not this one”

 

Debbie smiles a little, looking down at the pages of her book. “Okay.”

 

“More on alcoholism?” Fiona says wryly, tilting the book a little in Debbie’s hold to read the title. 

 

“It’s genetic. One of us should be prepared.”

 

“Debs,” Fiona sighs, “You know Frank - ”

 

“I know, Fiona,” Debbie interrupts, her voice low, hoarse, “I know it’s up to Frank now.” 

 

There’s a tiny part of Fiona that almost mourns the end of Debbie’s _Daddy_ phase; it’d been a long time coming, had lasted longer than Fiona had expected it to, but when it ended, with violence and tears and muffled screaming, it had hurt to see that part of her baby sister disappear forever. 

 

“Even when we know something, it can still be hard to deal with,” Fiona murmurs, strokes her fingers through Debbie’s soft hair. 

 

“Like you with Jimmy?” Debbie points out, lifting her eyes to Fiona’s, “I know you’re sad.” 

 

Fiona gives her a soft smile, maybe still a little shaky at the edges, “Yeah… kind of like that…” she admits.

 

Debbie nods, “It sucks.” 

 

“Sure does,” Fiona sighs, circling Debbie’s shoulders gently, tugging into a half hug, “Frank can be okay if he wants to be,” she says softly; and Jimmy could come back if he wanted to, too. 

 

“I want him to be,” Debbie sighs, “Even if he’s not a good Dad, he’s still… mine.” 

 

“I know, Debs,” Fiona puts a kiss to her hair, holding on to her for another moment. She sighs softly, leans her cheek against the top of Debbie’s head, “Hey,” shse says softly, “How about you take a break, watch a movie with me downstairs,” she suggests. 

 

Debbie’s quiet for a beat, just keeping still against Fiona, keeping her eyes closed; everything is just so _sad_ for a moment, with Frank gone and Jimmy gone and Ian gone and she feels the tears well up abruptly, too many to hold back. Her breath hitches a little and she presses her against against Fiona’s shoulder, embarrassed and needy.

 

Fiona wraps her other arm around Debbie, hugging her a more tightly, fingers curling around the fabric of her shirt. She doesn’t tell her not to cry or that it’s going to be okay; just holds on to her and tries to make that enough for today.

 

II

 

They watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants later; throw handfuls of popcorn at Carl when he calls it a pussy flick and cuddle Liam between them. 

 

II

 

Liam presses his face into the crook of her neck, his little body bracing itself against the cold wind that blows past them, and Fiona tightens her hold on him reflexively, murmurs a soft, comforting, “Shh,” as she waits for someone to answer the front door.

 

She’s about to knock again when the door swings open, Mandy in a sweater and nothing else, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, standing there with an impatient expression, “What?” She asks, already on the defensive, frowning at Fiona. 

 

It takes Fiona off guard and when she opens her mouth, her first thought slips out, “Don’t you ever wear pants?” 

 

Mandy’s glare intensifies, “Fuck you, this is my house,” she says darkly, “What do you want?” 

 

“To talk…” Fiona says, adjusting Liam on her hip, “Let me in.” 

 

There’s a beat where it’s anyone’s guess if Mandy’s going to slam the door in her face, so Fiona adds, “About Ian,” with a meaningful stare.

 

Mandy doesn’t move for another second, but then takes a step back, letting Fiona pass and shutting the door behind her. “No one else is up,” she says evenly.

 

There’s a laundry basket by the couch, piled high with folded clothes, and Fiona’s eyes stay on it for a moment before she takes in the rest of the room. She hasn’t been in the Milkovich house since she was ten and assigned to work a group project with Iggy; Terry Milkovich had stumbled in mid-way through and spit on their posterboard ( _fucking liberal bullshit_ ). 

 

“What about Ian?” Mandy asks, her voice guarded. 

 

“Oh,” Fiona turns around to look at her, shifting Liam a little, “We’re going to get’m on Friday.” Over a full week since he’d enlisted, she swallows hard at the thought. “I thought… I would tell you.” She offers, “You left the other night.” 

 

“Your brother’s a douchebag,” Mandy shrugs. She stares at Fiona for a second then shrugs, “You want a beer or something? Coffee…?” She mumbles. 

 

“Coffee’d be good,” Fiona nods, following Mandy into the kitchen, “I won’t stay long, Debbie’s starting dinner…” she says, glancing around. The house is a disaster; there’s clothes and shoes and empty bottles every where, strewn between junk food wrappers and weapons. It looks like what she imagines Carl’s apartment will someday if she manages to keep him out of prison. 

 

“So you did it then, got Ian out?” 

 

“Something like that,” Fiona smiles faintly, settles Liam on one of the chairs in the kitchen. The kitchen is moderately cleaner, if not neater. There are dishes stacked in the sink and pots on the stove, but the countertops are clean and Fiona’s seen worse at her own house when she’s left it in Monica and Frank’s care for more than a day, “Turns out it was a little easier than we thought it’d be,” she says carefully, “For once.” 

 

Mandy glances up from where she’s rinsing the coffee pot out, getting a new filter, “Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah. Since Phillip Gallagher got accepted into MIT,” Fiona explains, “All Lip had to do was call up the recruitment district’s office and be himself—said he wanted to go to MIT instead, that his sister - ” she points to herself, “Had just told him the letter had come in.” 

 

“Shit. It was that easy?” 

 

“Turns out when you enlist, the army actually wants you to want to be there,” Fiona shrugs, “And it’s only been a few days - the paperwork wasn’t even fully processed yet. I faxed over the acceptance letter, Lip signed some forms…” she trails off; it really was that easy, this one time in their life. She had to be grateful for it—hoped they hadn’t just used up their luck for the rest of the year.

 

“Does Ian even know?” Mandy wonders, turning the coffee maker on. She shifts, leaning back against the counter, arms folded across her chest, and eyes on Fiona, “That it’s over?” 

 

“He’s being dismissed on Friday; they probably think he knows, being _Lip_ , and all. They’d assume he started the whole process and I doubt they’re going to tell him in advance,” she takes a sippy cup out of the bag she’s carrying, handing it to Liam to keep him busy, “I guess there’s a chance he might find out before, but probably they’ll just tell him he can go the day of… and he’d have to cop to not being Lip if he wants to argue about it.” Fiona’s lips quirk slightly and she glances at Mandy, “We’re betting that he’s not going to be that much of an idiot,” she pauses, “But we want to be there, just in case.”

 

“Right,” Mandy agrees, a little off-balance by how _pleasant_ Fiona is being, “In case he runs.”

 

“Lip thinks he’s majorly fucked up in the head right now and might actually rather hit the streets than come home, so I think it’s probably a good idea to be there to pick him up.” 

 

Mandy nods carefully, “Yeah… can’t hurt,” she murmurs. 

 

Fiona unwinds her scarf, sets it on the table, and sits down. “So I wanted to thank you.” She spits it out, might as well get that out of the way.

 

“What?” 

 

“Lip and I were talking about MIT,” arguing actually, at each other’s throats again because _why the fuck did you even apply if you weren’t going to consider going?!_ , “And he mentioned that you filed the application for him.” _I didn’t fucking apply, Mandy fucking did it for me_.

 

“Oh,” Mandy nods again, her gaze watchful, “Right, yeah.” The coffee percolates then and she’s grateful for a reason to look away from Fiona’s dark brown eyes; they gave her the fucking creeps, didn’t the girl _blink_. “He’s smart enough…” she adds, rinsing two mugs out.

 

Fiona doesn’t say anything to that; they both know Lip’s a genius, both know it’s gonna be a miracle if he’s smart enough to do anything about it. “This was easy because of that, this thing with Ian, it’s easy to get him out of it because of that,” she continues, “And that’s because of you, so…” she shrugs, “Thanks.” 

 

Mandy scowls, dumps a few teaspoons of sugar into a mug and pours coffee into it, “Why’re you thanking me? Not like I did it for you,” she says roughly, putting the mug down in front of Fiona with a thunk. Liam looks up at the sound, reaching a little hand out towards the cup, then towards Fiona. 

 

Fiona smiles at him a little, brushing his fingers with hers, “No,” she says to Mandy, eyes on Liam, “You did it for one of my kids.” 

 

Mandy rolls her eyes, “Fuckin’ Gallaghers,” she turns back to the counter, pouring herself a cup, “You really buy into that one-for-all, all-for-one bullshit, don’t you?” 

 

“Our very special brand of psychosis,” Fiona smiles a little, taking a sip, “Anyway, I wanted you to know… because you care about them,” she says calmly, nudging the sippy cup to Liam’s mouth, “My brothers,” she elaborates, “You care about what happens to them…” and there’s a sliver of a challenge in her voice, the faintest thread of a test. 

 

Mandy narrows her eyes slightly, reacting to it, tensing, “Yeah, so?” 

 

“So I can be a bitch and I can step-up when I’m in the wrong about something,” Fiona says, “You want good things for them.” 

 

It’s still there that challenge and Mandy stares, watching the Liam holds the cup out towards Fiona’s face and then pulls it back playfully; the older girl has all her attention focused on him. The silence stretches and Mandy grits her teeth for a moment before she fills it, “I want Lip to get out of this shithole town, I’m not going to fuck with that,” she says tightly, “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business.” 

 

Fiona glances at her then, eyes sharp, “I wasn’t thinking about Lip.”

 

And Mandy scowls at her, a rush of defensiveness filling her up, “You think I know what to do about those two?” She demands, “Took me by total surprise, I’m _still_ not sure it isn't some shit-for-brains prank or a fucking joke or - I don’t know. I mean - ” She shrugs a shoulder lightly, “My _brother_ and Ian?” She scoffs, “ _Ian._ ” 

 

It’s the way she says it, Ian’s name, all faith and incredulity that makes Fiona smile faintly, “It’s kind of a mind-fuck, yeah,” she agrees.

 

“It was right in front of my face for like a fucking year and I didn’t see it,” Mandy grumbles, holding the coffee mug between her hands and looking down at it. 

 

“It’s not exactly something that comes to mind easily,” Fiona says wryly. 

 

“I’m pretty sure they’d fuck while I was in the next room,” she says, making a face. 

 

“That’s messed up,” Fiona murmurs, her lips quirking a little. 

 

It’s as close to friendly as they get and they both know it; both hold their tongues for a moment and let it stretch. “I don’t know what to expect when he gets back here,” Fiona admits, taking another careful sip of the coffee, “It’s going to be in time for Christmas so that’ll keep him distracted for a few days, but - ” she shrugs, “I don’t know what’s going to go down and I could use some backup,” she says bluntly.

 

“Me?” Mandy lifts her eyebrows. 

 

“Figure you’re the only one that could.” Fiona nods.

 

“Fuck do you figure that?” 

 

“You know your brother, you know Ian, you really care about both of them…” Fiona tilts her head, “I’ve only got one out of three on that scorecard.” She shifts on the chair, giving Mandy a pointed look, “Am I wrong?” 

 

Mandy glares at her, “I’m not your fucking backup. Ian’s my best friend, I don’t need you to _ask me_ to look out for him.” She doesn’t mention Mickey. She doesn’t need to. He’s her brother—that’s everything right there.

 

Fiona holds her gaze for another moment, then gets to her feet, bringing coffee cup up and finishing it. “Like you were watching out for him when he told you he was joining the army under Lip’s name?” She challenges, setting the mug down. Liam reaches for it and she slides it further way, ruffling her fingers through his hair absently, her eyes going to Mandy.

 

“Listen to me,” Mandy says very seriously, blue eyes narrowed on Fiona's face, “I do not owe you any _fucking_ explanations on Ian. Okay.”

 

“No,” Fiona says lightly, pressing her lips together as she shakes her head slightly, “Not okay. Part of wanting good things for someone is knowing when to pull the plug.” 

 

“ _You’re_ lecturing me? On how to be friends with Ian?” Mandy takes a step closer to Fiona, her eyes dark, “You didn’t even _notice_ that he was gone,” she says lowly, fiercely. 

 

“And I’m going to learn from that mistake,” Fiona says firmly, holding Mandy’s gaze, “Are you going to learn from _yours_?” 

 

“What are you - ”

 

“He could have been dismissed and never been allowed in the military as Ian Gallagher. He could have been arrested and thrown in prison.” She says just as seriously, “You should have - ”

 

“I didn’t _know_ ,” Mandy snaps before she can finish, “I didn’t know he was going to use Lip’s name, okay?” She glares, “He said he found a way around the age thing and I thought he meant something real. It’s fucking _Ian_ for fucks sake, since when do I have to worry about shit like that with Ian?” It’s Lip who bends the law and gets arrested; Ian keeps his nose clean and wants West Point enough that he just might get it someday.

 

“Well next time do something anyway!” Fiona snaps back, “You knew he had high school to finish, you - ”

 

“And what do you suggest? That I tattle to his big sister every time he has a bad idea? He’s _fucking_ my brother!” She shouts, “I think they’re all he _has_ lately!” 

 

“He _has_ to finish high school!” Fiona shouts back; she didn’t. But her kids will. 

 

“I _know_ that!” 

 

“Okay then!”

 

“What the fuck are you squawking about in here?” Mickey calls, the front door closing with a slam as he walks into the house. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and freezes in the doorway. 

 

Fiona’s gaze whirls to him, fixes on his face with sharp intensity— _Mickey Milkovich._ Ian was _in love_ with this boy; in love enough to be broken hearted, to run away, to give up a dream he’d had since he was thirteen. 

 

And there was not one thing, not one moment in her entire experience of living and growing up in this neighborhood, with these people, that could make sense of it for her; that could explain how this boy with tattoos and scrapes on his knuckles, bruises and beard on his face, could mean _that much_ to her little brother—and it kind of terrifies her. 

 

She searches his face for another beat, dark eyes taking him in wordlessly, before she shifts, grabbing her scarf and winding it around her neck again, “Just think about it, Mandy,” she sighs, “Ultimately we want the same things,” she shrugs, reaching for Liam, settling him on her hip, “Oh and we’re doing dinner for Christmas, come by, he’ll probably like it if you’re there,” she adds, then moves towards the door, pausing when she comes face-to-face with Mickey. “Congratulations on the wedding,” she tells him, words faintly biting, “Talk of the neighborhood these days,” she lifts her eyebrows slightly before slipping past him, “I’ll let myself out…” she calls. 

 

They both stand stock still until they hear the front door click shut; then Mandy blows out a breath just as Mickey turns to her, “What the _fuck_ was she doing here?” He hisses; his heart pounding suddenly, because that look she’d given him. 

 

Mandy glares at him for a second and then shrugs, turning away, putting the mugs in the sink, “Ian’s coming home on Friday,” she says flatly, running water over both of them and turning back towards the door. She shoves Mickey hard in the arm as she passes him, “ _Don’t_ fuck with him,” she snaps at him harshly, stalking off towards the staircase. 

 

Mickey stares after her, presses his lips together tightly, jaw clenching; _fuck_. He turns around and heads back out of the house. He’d go find someone to beat the shit out of and then that wouldn’t matter what the fuck Gallagher was or wasn’t doing.

 

 

II

 

.tbc.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

“Oh hey, what’s going on in here?” Lip asks around a cigarette, shutting the front door behind him with a kick. Debbie and Carl are leaning over the coffee table, a long, wide strip of brown paper stretching out over the ends of it, their heads bent and their voices low, intent; markers and glue and glitter strewn around them on the rug. 

 

“We’re making a banner for Ian,” Fiona answers a little ruefully, as she moves into the living room. She gives him a little shrug as she drops down on the rug next to Carl, sitting on her knees and grabbing a green marker. 

 

“A banner?” Lip echoes. 

 

“Debbie brought home supplies,” Fiona tells him, wiggling her eyebrows a little. 

 

“I paid for some of them,” Debbie defends, “We’re gonna have a party for Ian,” she adds, looking at Lip, “A welcome home party…” she gives him a little smile.

 

“I hope he got to shoot something in the head, with a sniper rifle,” Carl enthuses, “How cool would that be?” 

 

Fiona rolls her eyes, swatting at the back of Carl’s head, “Stop with the violence already.” 

 

“I didn’t _do_ any violence,” Carl grumbles. 

 

“Boy’s got a point,” Lip says, his tone faintly amused, “Where’s Liam?” 

 

“Down for the count,” Fiona says lightly, motions with her chin to the baby mintor lying on the sofa, “It’s pretty late,” she reminds him. 

 

“Lip, are we going to get a tree this year?” Debbie asks, still watching him, “For Christmas.” 

 

“Uh yeah, Debs, sure,” he nods a little, his gaze going to Fiona, and the look he shoots at her isn’t amused at all. He tilts his head towards the kitchen slightly, adds, “We can work on it,” to Debbie before continuing, "We got anything to eat?" He asks, shrugging out of his jacket and dropping it on the couch. He takes another drag on the cigarette, bends down to snuff it out in the ashtray and tugs a strand of Debbie’s hair lightly as he straightens, moves towards the kitchen. 

 

“We’ve got leftovers, yeah," Fiona says quickly, getting to her feet, and moving after him, "You two want a snack?" She asks, rubbing at Carl's fuzzy hair. 

 

Debbie tilts her head back to look at her, glancing at Lip’s retreating back, "I'm not a little kid anymore," she tells them firmly. 

 

"I know, Debs," she says easily, "I'm just asking if you want apple slices or something." 

 

"With peanut butter," Carl says, dumping a spoonful of glitter over a squiggle of glue, "A shit load of it." 

 

Debbie sighs, "Yeah, okay," she relents, focusing on the banner again. It’s late anyway, she doesn’t feel like arguing.

 

Fiona gives her a little smile, watching them both for a moment, and then she joins Lip in the kitchen, goes right to the cabinet to get the peanut butter out. "What's going on?" She asks him, keeping her voice quiet. 

 

Lip shrugs, leaning back against the kitchen table, watching her in the dim kitchen lighting. “You tell me. A party?" 

 

Fiona tosses an apple at him, avoiding his gaze, “Cut that up," she says lightly, adds, "Yeah," without commenting. 

 

"I don't think throwin' him a fuckin' party for this clusterfuck sends the right message," he retorts, catching the apple and going to grab a knife. 

 

"Yeah well, it's been a rough couple of weeks," she says with a shrug, "They need all the parties they can get.” 

 

"I'm going to beat the shit out of him," Lip informs her with a shrug of his own, bringing the apple to the counter and making quick work of it with the knife, “Throwing’m a party sends mixed signals."

 

"It's not really for him," Fiona slides him a look as she gets napkins out, "Kind of like your graduation party." 

 

Lip sets the cut up apple slices near her, mouth curving sardonically, "You gonna kick him out if he quits school?" 

 

"Ian's not going to quit school," she says firmly, taking one of the apple slices and smearing it with peanut butter, "There's macaroni from earlier if you're actually hungry," she tells him. 

 

"Oh he isn't, is he?" Lip hums, moving towards the refrigerator. 

 

“You’re not going to let him.” 

 

He glances over at her as he gets the leftovers out, grabs a beer too, “You psychic now?” 

 

“Nope,” Fiona gives him a pointed look, eyebrows arching a little, “Just know what it’s like to have a little brother you know can do better.” 

 

“Ah,” he lifts his eyebrows slightly too, pursing his lips as he uncaps the beer, “I see what you did there,” he takes a drink, “Think you’re fuckin’ clever, hmm.” He rolls his eyes. 

 

She gives him a returning _hmm_ , smiling a little as she works on the apples. “That acceptance letter really got us out of this jam.” 

 

“Fuck _off_ , Fiona,” Lip retorts, shutting the microwave on his plate a little more forcefully than necessary. 

 

“I just keep trying to think of a reason why you wouldn’t go and nothing comes to mind,” she insists, putting three apple slices on each of the two napkins. 

 

“Maybe because I don’t fucking want to.” 

 

She shrugs, admits, “I wanted to.” 

 

“Go to MIT?” 

 

“Go to college, dumbass,” she rolls her eyes, “I…” she wipes her hands a dishrag, leans her hip against the counter and looks at him, “Was looking into taking classes, when Monica was around the last time.” She says it carefully, because she’d fucked-up with that; _how’d that kool-aid taste going down_ , “You know, momentary insanity or whatever, but yeah - I wanted to.” 

 

“Yeah, well... I’m not your proxy, you don’t get to fucking live vicariously through me,” he says harshly, “Take classes if you want to,” he adds roughly, “I can fucking microwave dinner a couple nights a week, hell Debbie could do it.” 

 

She blows out a breath, “That’s not the point,” there’s a flash of it though, of possibilities, like there’d been a month before, “I just don’t see - ”

 

“It’s not your job to see it, it’s mine,” Lip snaps at her, eyes guarded and dark. He’s done talking about this.

 

And Fiona shrugs, “Just talk to me.” 

 

He barks out a laugh, harsh and humorless, “You’re fuckin’ hilarious, you know that?” How’s he supposed to do that when he can’t even work it out in his own head first?

 

The microwave beeps and Lip pauses, clearly caught between wanting to get it and wanting to storm off; Fiona waits, she’s not particularly hung up on him doing either—she can always corner him behind the shower curtain sometime, if it gets to that.

 

He rolls his eyes finally, yanking a drawer open, and grabbing a fork. He gets his plate out of the microwave and then sets it on the counter with a thunk, dropping the fork next to it with a clatter—and it makes Fiona’s lips twitch a little, almost makes her smile. 

 

“ _What_ the fuck are you smiling about?” He drawls, eyes narrowed.

 

She reaches around him to open one of the cabinets, takes one of the cups out, “Need a glass to slam next?” She offers it to him. 

 

He frowns at her, snatching it out of her hand, and then yes, dropping into the table with a clunk. He gives her another dark look, “We’re done with this subject now.” 

 

Fiona shrugs a shoulder, “Okay, sure, whatever you say…” 

 

He rolls his eyes, shoveling a forkful of macaroni and cheese into his mouth. Fiona smiles a little, picking his beer up and taking a sip. 

 

“So I talked to Mandy today,” she says lightly. 

 

“Oh _fuck all_ ,” Lip explodes, “What is this? You got a list of the shit I don’t wanna fucking talk about up your ass or something?” He scowls, snatches his beer back, “Since when do you even _like_ Mandy?” 

 

“I don’t like her,” Fiona says mildly, “I talk to people I don’t like every day of my life,” she points out. There’s something a little fun about riling Lip up like this, something about it that calls back to when she was eleven and the only way to wipe that smug _I’m in third grade but can do your homework_ look off his face was to irritate him into stomping his feet and storming off to his room.

 

The look Lip gives her now almost makes her smile, but she reigns it in, shrugging again, “Ian is kinda fond of her, you know - ” her amusement fades little, “As close as I can figure anyway.” She should probably stop assuming things about Ian at this point. 

 

“I think we can safely establish that Ian has shitty taste in people.” 

 

“Gallagher trait,” Fiona says, the amusement entirely gone now, her voice softer. She takes a napkin with apple slices in each hand, “I went to see her because I wanted to let her know he was coming home soon. I figured we owed her that much,” which is not exactly something she’s that comfortable with admitting to, so she shrugs, “We’re not gonna be paintin’ each other’s nails anytime soon.” 

 

Lip glares at her for another moment before grunting something and looking down at his plate, “She’s crazy.” 

 

“That’s not actually news to me, Lip,” Fiona says wryly, “I kinda figured that from the start.” 

 

“No, I mean she’s really - ” he shrugs, cutting himself off, “Just… be careful around her, don’t get too close.” 

 

She tilts her head, “Something you wanna tell me?”

 

“Did you not just hear me say it?” 

 

She rolls her eyes, “I can handle Mandy Milkovich—probably better than you can,” she adds dryly.

 

Lip is quiet for a moment, still, and then shrugs a shoulder, eats another forkful of macaroni; she takes that as an okay and nudges her his arm with her elbow lightly as she leaves the kitchen. 

 

Debbie and Carl are midway through the banner now, fingers smudged with colors and sticky with glue, and she smiles a little at that, says, “Wash your hands, guys,” as she approaches them and then settles down on the carpet. They grumble a little, but not much; Debbie shoving Carl away when he tries to get into the bathroom first. They come back still shoving at each other, hands wet and voices low with hushed insults, Fiona tosses one of the markers at them, “Hey,” she smiles and a beat later they’re sitting down again, back to work. 

 

Fiona picks up a glue stick, starts drawing a line under the word _home_ , intent on sprinkling green glitter over it when Lip joins them in the living room; he has another plate of food with him, tells Carl to _shove over_ when drops down on rug with them and plops his plate of food on the floor. 

 

“I’ll dump glitter on your food,” Carl threatens, shoving back.

 

“And I’ll punch you in the head,” Lip retorts. 

 

Fiona glances up at them, but it’s Debbie who speaks, “Here, Lip—you color in the _I_ ,” she hands Lip a marker.

 

“Why the fuck is there so much glitter,” he grumbles, taking the marker. 

 

“It was on sale,” Debbie informs him, “I bought five packs for a dollar.” 

 

Carl smirks, “Because nobody likes glitter, it’s stupid.” 

 

“You’re stupid,” Debbie elbows him. 

 

Fiona kicks Carl’s foot lightly before he has a chance to shove at Debbie, “Hey am I doin’ this right or what?” She asks. 

 

It distracts him enough, since he dumps another spoonful of glitter over her line of glue, and she shares a look with Lip for a moment before they get back to work. 

 

 

II

 

 

Debbie pleads to come along with them; argues that almost twelve is old enough for this kind of thing and that Veronica could handle Carl and Liam by herself, but Fiona doesn’t budge on it. A part of her knows she’s digging herself a deep hole with Debbie by treating her like a child when she so clearly wants to be treated like an adult; but the rest of her sees her sister’s pinched lips and serious eyes and thinks Debbie’s already grown up too fast. She deserves to be a kid for as long as possible. 

 

Even if she doesn’t realize it yet. 

 

So Fiona glares back when Debbie scowls at her and she doesn’t let her come. 

 

 

II

 

 

Lip gets the car from Kev; who gets it from someone else and that’s really as much as Fiona needs to know. 

 

They make drive listening to shitty radio stations and not talking in companionable silence except for a brief conservation just after crossing the state line when Lip asks, “Nothing from Jimbo?” His voice mocking on the name.

 

Fiona swallows hard, glancing at him, her lips pressed together as she gives a short shake of her head. 

 

“Want me to find’m?” Lip offers after a they’ve gone another mile or so, then adds, “I’ll have to beat the shit out of him before I tell you where he is, but I’ll find him.” 

 

“You’ll have to, huh?” Fiona murmurs, tries not to sound as sad as the whole thing makes her feel. 

 

“Shithead owes me,” he says, fingers tightening around wheel. 

 

She smiles faintly, doesn’t ask for what; just turns her gaze to the window. 

 

Fiona loses track of the minutes, of the songs that play; then they stop at a light, she blinks like she’s come out of a daze—then confesses very softly, “I trusted him.” _How’d that kool-aid taste going down._

 

Lip’s jaw clenches, they’re moving again by the time he says, “He’s a piece of shit,” his voice rough.

 

She doesn’t argue that, even though a hundred moments come to mind instantly where he wasn’t one. “Guess we really know how to pick’m,” she says quietly, watching as they pass another rest-station. 

 

Lip doesn’t unclench, because Karen flits through his mind and then Mandy and Mickey and Kash and that asshole who’d sicced his wife on Fiona. “Guess so,” he agrees lowly. 

 

They don’t talk again until they see the signs for Fort Leonard Wood. 

 

 

II

 

 

The look Ian gives them when he steps outside the tall wire gates could peel paint. 

 

He’s wearing a uniform, hat under his arm, and he doesn’t say anything; walks right past them on the path leading to the entrance. 

 

Lip doesn’t say a word either, turns on the balls of his feet and follows Ian with long strides. 

 

It’s Fiona who takes a deep breath, “Ian,” she says his name urgently, rushing to catch up with them on the path, “Wait, wait, okay… hold on.” 

 

But Ian doesn’t wait, he doesn’t stop, and Lip still doesn’t say anything. It makes her gut twist and she rushes behind them, watching as Lip falls into step with Ian. 

 

Ian doesn’t outpace him, even though he probably could; he doesn’t slow down either and by the turn the corner into the fort parking lot, Fiona’s heart is pounding. They’re almost to the car when she tries again, “Ian okay—look, I know you’re upset and we need to to talk but - ” 

 

“No we don’t,” Ian says smoothly, his voice even. 

 

And Lip had honestly planned to wait until they were off military ground; had planned to pull the car over and pound the shit out of his little brother on some grassy strip of land by the side of the road—but then Ian talks; and Lip wants to _break_ something when he hears what he has to say.

 

His hand lands hard on Ian’s shoulder, foot coming out to hook in front of his shin, tripping him with a fist to the gut, “You asshole.” 

 

Ian tackles him like he’d been waiting for it—which he probably had been; drives Lip backwards into a parked car with enough force to knock the wind out of him and Lip reacts by headbutting him in the face. 

 

It’s a dirtyass move (Frank’s move) and maybe he’ll regret it later, but then Ian’s fist hits his cheek like a wrecking ball and he thinks maybe he won’t. 

 

Fiona screams at them then, shouts their names, but Ian’s got his fingers clenched around Lip’s shirt and a fist reared back to hit him again so Lip thrusts the heel of his hand against Ian’s neck, knocking him back with strangled gasp. 

 

“What the _fuck!_ Are you both insane!” Fiona shouts at them, her hands reaching for them. 

 

But Ian moves forward, leading with a foot, and a fist, and he takes Lip to the ground with the force of that glare he’d fixed on them earlier; cold fury and deliberately vicious. 

 

And it makes her scream, a hand flying to her mouth to strangle it midway through—they don’t need security out here, but - “ _Ian!_ ” She screams, when he lands another fist against Lip’s face. 

 

Lip knees him in the ribcage hard, fingers pressing hard against Ian’s throat, and when the other boy’s hold loosens he shoves him off enough that he can punch him in that stupidass mouth of his, once and twice and then again until Ian shoves him into the concrete hard enough the back of his head bounces off of it.

 

Fiona shouts, “ _Stop_ it!” again, moving around where they’re rolling on the ground, grabbing at Ian’s arm and giving him a hard tug; it has no effect except to distract him enough so that Lip’s elbow comes up, jamming against Ian’s face with enough force to make him gasp again, make him rear back, and Lip takes the opening to flip him over _hard_ onto the concrete, “ _Lip!_ she shrieks, staggering back away from them. 

 

There’s a desperate part of her suddenly that wishes she _had_ brought Debbie with her; they would never do this with Debbie here. 

 

She’s had enough all of a sudden and runs back to the car, hauling open the back seat and scanning it for a weapon; there’s always a weapon. There’s a crowbar on the floor of the backseat, cold between her fingers when she picks it up. She hardly notices though, uses it to shove hard at Lip’s shoulder, “Get _off_ him!” She demands, “Lip!” She shouts, cringing even as she hits at his back firmly with it, stepping closer and bracing herself for a swing as she she uses it to shove at his hands, his arms. Ian makes a move and she stomps her foot down hard against his shoulder, “Stop it, _stop_ ,” she hisses at them, her voice shaking, “Are you _batshit insane?_ It’s a _military_ base.” 

 

And they hear her finally, going still.

 

“Get the fuck off me,” Ian growls; there’s blood in his mouth. 

 

Lip’s fist tightens around the fabric of Ian’s uniform. 

 

“ _Enough_ ,” Fiona snaps, bending down and hooking an elbow around Lip’s arm, hauling him back, “Cut this shit out right now,” she says sharply, “You’re driving us. We need to get out of here.” 

 

He jerks himself out of her hold, wiping blood out of his mouth, turning around to spit it onto the ground. 

 

“Yeah no, fuck that,” Ian coughs, getting to his feet, wiping at mouth too. 

 

And she looks at him with wide eyes, terrified suddenly, “Ian - ” He has to come back with them. 

 

“I’m not - ”

 

“Do _not_ do this,” she says fiercely, her voice still sharp, almost shaking; taking a step towards him. 

 

“I can’t - ” his whole face tightens up and Fiona feels something like sob well up inside her throat. 

 

“You have to,” she’s crossed the space between them before she’s figured out anything else to say; touches his arm lightly instead.

 

“No I don’t,” he challenges, flinching at her touch, “You can’t actually make me.” It sounds childish, but there’s steel in his voice and it makes Fiona's eyes water.

 

“Get in the car,” she says seriously, ignoring it, “You’re coming home. You have to.” There’s a thread of pleading and when his gaze meets hers she’s not afraid to let that thread into her eyes, “I need you to come home.” 

 

“You don’t,” he says seriously. 

 

“This is fucking bullshit,” Lip spits, pacing. “You’re seriously going to fuck your life away - ”

 

“Shut up, Lip,” Fiona hisses at him, “Ian, get in the car.” She points at it now, fingers curling around his arm, trying to turn him towards it. “We’re not having this conversation in a parking lot.” 

 

“There’s nothing to talk about - ”

 

Lip makes a sound low in his throat, takes a threatening step forward and Ian tenses reflexively, green eyes flashing. Fiona steps between them immediately, shoves one end of the crowbar at Lip, keeping him at a distance, “Do not.” 

 

“Like _fuck_ there’s nothing to talk about,” Lip accuses, pointing a finger at him, moving forward anyway so Fiona’s fingers press against his chest, the crowbar lowered, “You little shit.” 

 

Ian scowls at him, “You’re just pissing your life away anyway. At least I was going to do something useful with it.” 

 

“That’s not your fucking call to make!” 

 

“And this isn’t yours! I’m not going back!” 

 

“Get in the car!” Fiona shouts over both of them, her voice cracking at the end, shoving at Ian hard, her hand a fist against his shoulder, “ _Do_ it Ian!” There are tears close to the surface now, even she can hear them; but they’re both bleeding and breathing hard and she doesn’t know that she can contain this if they don’t do it for her—if they don’t reign themselves in. 

 

Ian doesn’t move and Lip doesn’t reply and the only thing she can hear for a moment is the silence of the trees around them. 

 

And then Lip slices into it. “You're really gonna count on this shit for brains fucker to make a right decision?”

 

“Lip,” Fiona says warningly, fed up. “Ian messed up, but we all - ”

 

“I’m not sorry,” Ian interrupts her. He’s still glaring at Lip, both of them still panting a little, clothes torn and faces scraped raw and dirty; and she doesn’t dare take her eyes off Ian, her fingers from Lip’s chest; there’s nothing to stop either one of them from turning around and walking away. 

 

“See,” Lip barks at him, his voice jagged, taunting, “What’d I tell you…”

 

It's the closest to the edge of that she's ever felt them and it feels like she can’t breath for a beat—and then Ian moves, looking away from Lip, and turning to the car with back door still open. He gets in, slams it shut. 

 

Lip does the same a beat later, moving around her and going to the drivers side, getting in. 

 

And it's just her for a moment, standing in the a cold Missouri parking lot with a crowbar in her hand. 

 

She takes a slow, trembling breath, rubbing at her face with a shaky hand, before she moves after them—it’s going to be a quiet drive home.

 

II

 

.tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally noted this fic as being 3 chapters long, but it grew a bit... Thank you to everyone that's reading and has left kudos/comments. I really appreciate it! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

 

 

 

“Pull over there...” When Lip doesn’t switch lanes fast enough, Fiona hits her palm against the glass, “Right there!” She snaps, “Pull over.” 

 

“Fiona - ”

 

“Now, Lip!” She demands, pointing at the rest station coming up, “You’re both dripping blood all over the goddamn seats and I need a fucking break from all the loud-as-fuck chatter in this car.”

 

She was being facetious; this was the first thing anyone had said since they’d pulled out of the lot. 

 

Lip shuts his mouth and focuses on maneuvering the car over a lane, then pulling out of traffic. Fiona presses her lips together tightly, hands clenched in her lap. They’re just over an hour into a five hour drive and she’s been trying not to think about their stupid swelling faces or the scraped-to-hell knuckles or what the fuck she was going to do with them when they got to Chicago—but that hasn’t exactly been working.

 

When Lip parks the car, she shoves the door open, “Wait here. See if you can not maim each other while I’m gone,” she spits at them, slamming the door behind her. Maybe if she weren’t looking it’d all fix itself. 

 

The inside of the car is entirely silent in her absence. Lip turns the engine off and touches his chin lightly, it’s bleeding—Fiona’s right, dripping blood; his whole face is throbbing and his gaze goes reflexively to the rearview mirror, looking at Ian, “You’re a dickhead, you know that.” 

 

“Yeah well,” Ian looks down at his knuckles, wincing when he flexes them, “You hit like a pussy.” 

 

“Like you’d know anything about that.”

 

“Oh a gay joke, fuckin’ brilliant, Lip. I see why they let you into MIT,” he rolls his eyes, “Fucking Massachusetts deserves you.”

 

“That what you think this is about?” Lip swivels in his seat, glaring at him, “You think I want to go to fuckin’ Massachusetts? That’s why I came out here—Hey genius - ” he barks, “They were gonna figure this shit out. Soon. By next week. Or what? You think those fuckin’ fingerprints I _know_ they took of you were a joke?” 

 

Ian glares back at him, “That’s your problem. You think I can’t take care of myself.” 

 

“Ian - ”

 

“I was gonna switch them out with yours from you got processed; I know how to do that and those records are sealed.” There’s a defensive note in his voice he wishes wasn’t there; something too _little brother_ about it that makes him tense before Lip’s even responded. 

 

“Without getting _caught_ ,” the older boy hisses, “You think that shit isn’t tracked? You gotta get through firewalls. You need network logins. What? You gonna get some poor ass government lackey fired so you could get your head shot off by towelheads?” 

 

“ _Fuck_ you, Lip.” 

 

“No, _fuck you_ for thinking this is the way to deal with your shitty life,” he spits back, “Life’s shit, since when is that news to you.” 

 

“You don’t _get_ it,” Ian retorts, bristling, “You think you know everything, about everything, but you don’t. You don’t know shit and I didn’t _ask_ for your help so - ”

 

“Well you clear as fuck should have!” Lip shouts at him, pissed off again, “This is the stupidest goddamn shit I’ve ever fucking seen! _Enlisting_ Ian? What the fuck were you thinking?” 

 

“Just _shut up_ , Lip,” Ian hisses back, “You’re embarrassing yourself.” 

 

Lip’s hands clench into a fist and Ian lifts an eyebrow slightly, glaring at him, gaze fairly screaming _go ahead_ at him, but Lip doesn’t take the bait. 

 

“You’re a dickhead,” he says again instead, turning back around in his seat and slumping back into it. 

 

When Fiona gets back into the car with a plastic bag full of frozen 99¢ vegetables, a purse full of first aid supplies, and a cup of coffee, the car is as quiet and still as she had left it. 

 

She blows out breath, dumps everything on the floor—there goes that hope for a magical fix. 

 

“You got cigarettes in there?” Lip asks immediately. 

 

She pulls a pack out, hands it to him. Then holds a bag of peas at Ian, “For your face,” follows it up with a bottle of water. 

 

He takes both, hesitating before giving her a quiet, “Thanks.” It feels good against his face, the water better, and he’s tired all of a sudden. 

 

“Yours,” she says to Lip, putting the water bottle in his lap. 

 

He grunts a thank you, checking the mirrors, before he starts pulling out.

 

“Wait,” Fiona says seriously, shifting on her seat, “Move the seat up - ”

 

“What? Why - ”

 

“Lip, can you just fucking do it, jesus,” she tears open a package of gauze, “The back of your head is bleeding all down your neck,” she reaches over and swipes the gauze roughly along the back of his neck, showing it to him before she tosses it onto the floor of the car. 

 

“Doesn’t hurt,” Lip shrugs. 

 

“Did I ask if it fucking hurt?” Fiona rolls her eyes. She takes a hair tie from her purse and ties a wad of gauze to another package for frozen peas. Then holds it against the headrest, behind Lip’s head, “Lean back,” she instructs, “Can you drive like that? Or I can drive for a while.” 

 

“It’s fine,” he says mutedly; not willing to admit that the cold kind of does feel good. 

 

“Here,” she hands him one pack of advil, then holds another out to Ian. 

 

The car is quiet as both boys down the pills with a swallow of water. Ian shifts, sits behind the driver’s seat so he doesn’t have to look at Lip’s face and Fiona takes out a small tube of cream from her pocket, “Knuckles,” she hands it to Lip first. 

 

He rolls his eyes a little, but smears some on before he pulls back into traffic. She glances back at Ian, holds it out to him, “You too.” 

 

And Ian nods slightly, avoiding her eyes all of a sudden. “Thanks…” he mumbles again. 

 

And she latches on to his arm before he can pull back, waits for his gaze to lift to hers. “I missed you,” she tells him, “You know that, right?” 

 

He licks lips a little; and feels that angry knot in his chest he's been using to fuel everything he’s done in the last month softening—despite himself. That look on her face, that much love and that much devotion—nobody else in the world looked at him like that, “I know,” he says quietly. 

 

“He just doesn’t _give_ a fuck,” Lip snaps. 

 

Ian jerks under Fiona’s hold, pulling his hand back, and she shoots Lip a glare, “Lip - ”

 

“Just shut the fuck up,” Ian orders again. 

 

“What? Am I lying?” Lip taunts. Fiona could be all gentle words and soft touches if she fucking felt like it, but Lip wasn’t going to pull his punches, not with this, “You fucked off without even telling us. You told fucking _Mandy_ you were leaving and couldn’t bother to even leave a note for your _family_? Because Debbie and Carl haven’t had _enough_ people in their life fuck off in the last year, right?” 

 

“I was going to call - ”

 

“And for what? _Mickey Milkovich_ and what I can only _hope_ is his fucking magical cock—goddamn thing must be made of crack, huh Ian? What’s life without his dick up your - ” 

 

Ian shoves at the back of Lip’s headrest so hard Lip’s flung forward, makeshift icepack sliding down his back while his foot presses down on the gas reflexively, almost rear-ending the car in front of them. 

 

He hits the brakes hard in response and they’re all flung forward roughly, cars behind them swerving and honking their horns, and Fiona whirls in her seat to glare at Ian, “Can you please not fuckin’ kill us over Mickey Milkovich for fucks sake, Ian! Jesus!” 

 

Ian blows out a breath, falling back against the seat, “This isn’t about Mickey,” he tells them. 

 

“The hell it isn’t,” Lip snorts, reaching behind himself to yank the frozen peas away. He tosses them back onto Fiona’s lap. 

 

“It isn’t - ” 

 

“You’re running like - ”

 

“I’m not running from Mickey.” 

 

“Then what the fuck are you running from because it’s sure as hell something,” Lip shoots back at him, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. 

 

“I’m not. I’m not running from anything—I’m just not standing still. I’m sick of it.” He looks at Fiona instead of Lip, his gaze meeting hers, because she could understand it; probably Lip couldn’t, not really, but Fiona could. “Aren’t you sick of it? Of the way shit just _happens to us._ No control, no choice, just reacting all the time to endless crap.” 

 

“That’s called life, shithead.” Lip answers.

 

But Ian ignores Lip. Lip doesn’t get it; Lip has _options_. Lip could go to MIT or Stanford or West Point; Lip could go anywhere he wanted. He just had to want it. Lip’s only stuck because he wants to be, so Ian keeps his eyes on Fiona because she has to know, “No, it’s not," he says. Because she has to know what it’s like when people tell you that you can’t over and over again; when even if the things you want are right there, they’re still totally out of your reach. 

 

Something flickers in her eyes, something so sad and heartbreaking it makes his eyes water, “Ian,” she says a little helplessly, a little pleading, “You don’t- _you_ don’t have to feel that way,” she tells him; she did all of this so he wouldn’t feel that way. 

 

“But I do.” 

 

Fiona’s gaze holds his and her eyes are as wet as his feel; but he knows, she gets it now. 

 

Lip grunts a little, “Look, if West Point is what - ”

 

“Enough, Lip,” she snaps just as Ian tenses, “Enough - ” she turns back around in her seat, facing forward, “Arguing about it isn’t getting us anywhere,” she points out, turns the radio on. 

 

They’re both quiet in response; they’re tired and hurting and sometimes listening to Fiona is the easiest option. Fiona lets the silence stretch. She leans back and focuses on breathing and how Ian is in the car, was coming home with them, and how that was enough for right now. 

 

 

II

 

 

It’s dark when they spill out of the car in front of the Gallagher house. The street is quiet, most of the houses dark, and Fiona waits by the gate for them to follow her. 

 

She puts a hand to Ian’s chest wordlessly, stopping him, then puts her arms around his neck in a hug. 

 

He holds entirely still for a moment; and then his arms go around her, his head ducking a little, chin resting on her shoulder. 

 

Lip’s standing to one side, watching them, quiet; and when Fiona pulls back, turning towards the steps and taking his arm, looping hers through it so she has one brother at either side, no one says a word. 

 

 

 

II

 

 

 

The banner had already been hung in the archway when he’d come home the night before, but it isn’t until the morning when Debbie launches herself at him with a wide smile and a big hug that Ian really pays any attention to it, “It looks really great,” he whispers to her when she asks him what he thinks, “I love it. Thanks.” 

 

She squeezes him a little harder and he thinks abruptly of what Lip had said in the car; of how many people Debbie and Carl had lost already. 

 

Carl’s right behind her, grinning at him; “You get to blow any shit up?” the first thing out of his mouth, followed by an excited, “You got to fight people!?” After taking a better look at Ian's face. 

 

It makes Ian laugh and it’s maybe the first time he’s laughed in a while because the sound feels weird in his chest. 

 

“Nope. Got to fire a few rifles though.” 

 

“Awesome!” Carl grins, “We should get a rifle.” 

 

“We’re not getting rifles,” Fiona says, smiling as she joins them in the kitchen; Liam on her hip. She’s dressed for work, settles Liam in his high chair, and then goes right for the coffee pot; they’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, but having Ian in the kitchen and Debbie and Carl smiling made up for that, “Christmas Eve is tomorrow and we’re getting…” she looks at Debbie when she says, “A tree.” 

 

“Really?” Debbie perks up even more, “A real one?” 

 

Fiona nods, “I talked to Mike and he said we chop one down on his family’s property.” 

 

And the way Debbie beams, jumping up and down for a second and rushing her with a quick hug, is totally worth the semi-awkward conversation she’d had to have with him. 

 

“Cool,” Carl agrees, “You know those things catch fire if you heat’m enough,” he says excitedly. 

 

“You will _not_ burn down the house,” Fiona says with a shake of her head, “Repeat after me: I will not burn down the house.”

 

Carl shrugs, grinning, “Yeah, sure. No house burning,” he agrees, “Can I have oatmeal?” 

 

“I don't have time, bud. Cereal?” 

 

“I’ll make some,” Ian says with a shrug, “Not like I have anything to do anyway.” 

 

“Oh that’d be great,” she nods, then adds, “Get your homework from Mandy,” as she fills her travel mug. 

 

“Fiona - ”

 

“You can come with me. I was going to go over there and see her after breakfast,” Debbie tells him, “Tell her about your party tonight.” 

 

“Phones don’t exist now?” Fiona says dryly.

 

“I like being with Mandy,” Debbie says archly, “She doesn’t treat me like a baby.” 

 

Fiona rolls her eyes, screwing the lid onto her mug tightly. 

 

Ian sighs, gives his little sister a smile, “We don’t have to have a party.” 

 

“Oh sure we do!” Lip announces, his tone mockingly bright, “Ian’s come back from the military,” he says, “Celebrate the veterans and all that.” 

 

Fiona rolls her eyes at him, “Don’t start.” 

 

“What happened to your face?” Debbie asks. 

 

“Walked into a door, Debs,” Lip answers smoothly, giving her a little wink. 

 

“Can I trust you two to not start another world war while I’m at work?” Fiona asks, looking between Ian and Lip. 

 

Lip shrugs, moving around them to get a coffee mug out, “Of course,” he slides a look at Ian, “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

 

Debbie looks between them suspiciously; matching Ian’s bruises (not from ROTC?) to Lip’s for a moment, but then she shrugs, “We’re getting a tree,” she tells Lip. “A real one…” 

 

Lip smirks, “Oh yeah?” He looks at Fiona, “How’s that?” 

 

“Yeah,” she says without actually answering, “We’ve still got that chainsaw, right?” She asks him, “You, Kev, and Ian could go out to the property tomorrow and bring one back.” 

 

“Chainsaw,” Carl grins, “Cool.” 

 

“Oh, hm,” Lip says sardonically, pressing his mouth together, “Me, Kev, and Ian.” 

 

“For a _tree_ ,” Debbie says emphatically, “So we can decorate it! We can make popcorn strings and get a star for the top and you know- you know, I read… you can make edible ornaments. Maybe Shelia would help…” 

 

Her enthusiasm fills the kitchen for a moment and Fiona gives both Lip and Ian a little smile, a little shrug, because that was that, “I’ll see you both after work for the party—check for the chainsaw?” She says to Lip and then to Ian, “And go with her - ” she tilts her head at Debbie, “Get your work from Mandy,” she grabs a packaged of Pop-Tarts and turns towards the door, “—and no chainsaw, Carl!” 

 

“Fi _o_ na!” He whines. 

 

“Your math workbook is on your bed!” She calls back to him. 

 

The kitchen is quiet for a beat when she leaves and then Debbie smiles, “I’ll help with the oatmeal,” she tells Ian, going to get the container. “How big do you think we could one? A tree…” she asks them, “That’ll fit through the door…” 

 

“I don’t know, Debs,” Lip mumbles, shooting Ian a glare just for the heck of it. His head fucking _hurts_ this morning and he’s kind of satisfied that the little shit’s face is all scraped up.

 

“Maybe six feet?” She wonders, smiling as she measure oatmeal out, “Or seven even?” 

 

Ian returns Lip’s glare, but the hand that he smoothes along Debbie’s hair is gentle, “Maybe,” he agrees. 

 

“I wanna come, when you go chop it,” Carl perches his chin on the counter. “Can I hold the saw?” 

 

He gets three simultaneous, “No!” from his siblings and when the little boy scowls and Debbie laughs a little, both Ian and Lip find themselves smiling slightly too. 

 

 

II

 

 

“Hey Mandy,” Debbie says easily when the older girl opens the door in a t-shirt and tights, “Look who’s home,” she smiles, tilting her head to Ian who’s standing at her side. 

 

It was late afternoon, the evening really; they’d meant to come earlier, but getting ahold of a chainsaw _and_ a truck that actually worked turned out to be harder than expected. 

 

“Hey,” Mandy says to Debbie, then lifts her gaze to Ian. She doesn’t say anything right away, just looks at him; caught between happy he’s back and mad he’d gone and left in the first place. 

 

He fidgets under her stare though and that makes her skin tingle with warmth; he cared about what she has to say. “Quick stint, huh,” she murmurs finally, ruefully, something fond creeping into her voice despite herself; it’s just good to see him, always. “They make you fight for your food or somethin?” She adds, nodding at his face.

 

He smiles then, quick and wide, the kind that’s just for her, and it makes her smile too. 

 

“You know. Keeping it real,” he jokes with her. 

 

And she smiles a little more at that, “What’re you two doin’ here?” She asks, letting them in. 

 

“I’m here because we’re having a party in a couple hours for Ian. You're invited - ” she shifts closer to Mandy, lowering her voice, “You know that blue eyeshadow? Could I borrow some of that?” 

 

Ian arcs his eyebrows, “You’re getting _makeup_ tips from Mandy?” He says exaggerated incredulity. 

 

“Hey!” Mandy laughs, flashing _fuck you_ at him with her finger. 

 

Ian smirks, holds his arms up in surrender, “Just sayin,” he says lightly. 

 

“And Ian’s here because he's supposed to get his homework from you,” Debbie finishes, voice just a little more smug now. 

 

“Oh now you want the homework,” Mandy rolls her eyes. 

 

“Want’s a strong word,” Ian sighs, shrugging. The smile still hovers around his lips though, because it’s easy to smile at Mandy, easier even to smile at Debbie; and focusing on them kept his thoughts from going anywhere else. 

 

“I bet,” Mandy nods, imagining that the the _supposed to_ Debbie mentioned comes from Fiona. “Alright, lemme get it - come pick which blue you want…” she says to Debbie, “I got a few...” 

 

Debbie nods, following her down the hall, and a beat later Ian’s alone in the Milkovich hallway. He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his coat, turning towards the front door, pacing a little, making very sure to stay away from the other doors in the hallway. 

 

What he doesn’t consider is that maybe Mickey’s not home; maybe Mickey’s getting home right now. Maybe Mickey’s going to open the front door and Ian’s going to be _right_ there in his face.

 

They both startle when it happens, gazes meeting and holding. 

 

Then Ian looks away, backing up down the hall, “I’m not here for you,” he says quickly and it’s an echo of the last time he was in this house. 

 

Mickey shrugs his shoulders, moving forward towards him, his eyes on Ian’s face, taking him in in; every bruise and scrape and angle until Ian almost fidgets the way he had under Mandy’s eyes. He holds still though, ignores Mickey’s stare. 

 

“You keep sayin’ that Gallagher,” Mickey says, his voice purposefully light as he peels off his coat, throwing it into the living room. 

 

“What you want to hear, isn’t it?” Ian challenges, looking at him then. 

 

“Fuck do you know about what I want?” Mickey's voice is deceptively calm, low, as he turns towards Ian again. 

 

And Ian reacts to that tone; stiffens, hands balling into fists, “I’m not doing this with you,” he says tightly. 

 

“What’re you doing here then? You keep showing up.” The smirk that crosses Mickey’s face isn’t friendly at all, eyes a predatory, “That married-man kink of yours acting up?” 

 

Ian swallows hard, “You think it’s funny?” 

 

“Don’t it look like a good time to you?” 

 

Ian shakes his head, huffing a humorless laugh, “You don’t want to know what it looks like to me.” 

 

And Mickey presses his lips together tightly, thinks he’s probably right—he doesn’t want. 

 

“Stop coming around here,” he says instead, his voice gruff, still low.

 

“Not here for you,” Ian says again, “Mandy’s getting Debbie something. They’ll be right back.” 

 

“I don’t give a shit. Texts exist, meet her at your place. I don’t need you popping the fuck up when I get in from work.” 

 

Ian drops his gaze, feels like something sharp pricks his chest. “Fine.” 

 

Mickey grits his teeth, says, “Good.” But he doesn’t move to leave, feels stuck there; feet glued to the floorboards and his eyes watching the other boy.

 

“What the fuck is this?” The words are low, biting, and both boys freeze.

 

It happens fast, _really_ fast. Mickey still has his back to the door, turning in time to look at his father, to see his father look at Ian—Ian in his house, alone in the hallway with his son—and it’s a horrifying flashback on all three of their faces. 

 

Terry’s on Ian in another breaths time, his fist coming out against Ian’s face, a hand at the boy’s throat, driving him back against the wall hard, “You come back for more, you little faggot?” 

 

“Dad,” Mickey snaps, voice hard, “Don’t- _don’t_ \- ” his hands shoving Terry back, trying to get between them, “-fuck- let’m go- came to see Mandy, don’t - ”

 

Terry slams an elbow into Mickey’s face viciously, breaking him off, and then driving his fist against Ian’s face again, swinging him around against the other wall, knocking portraits and stumbling over beer bottles.

 

The noise brings the girls back into the hall and Debbie screams when she sees Ian pinned down, her eyes wide and terrified. Mandy hisses, _fuck_ under her breath, grabbing the little girl’s arm and pulling her back. 

 

Ian’s bleeding, dazed—taken off guard and gasping for air; Terry’s arm pressed against his windpipe; there’s hate in his voice when he threatens, “Gonna make me hafta kill you, you assfucking faggot,” he growls, hitting him again, “Fists’ll work just as well as a gun ya know.” 

 

Mandy shouts, “ _Dad!_ ” then, launching herself at him, grabbing his arm and and trying to yank him off of Ian. He backhands her without looking making her rear back, and Mickey shoves her out of the way before she gets anything worse than that. 

 

It’s a sickening replay as he leaps up, arm closing around his father’s neck as he hauls him backwards, choking him, “Get _off_ him,” he spits, tightening his hold and yanking him back, around, and finally off of Ian. 

 

His father scrapes nails along Mickey’s arm and swings an arm back to punching him in the head, making his ears ring and his vision blur; he doesn’t let go, but maybe he’s losing his grip when there’s a flash of black, the sound of iron hitting bone, and then his father goes limp in his hold. 

 

Mickey looks up, startled; Mandy’s holding the cast iron frying pan, breathing hard, a cut bleeding slightly on her cheek. 

 

He drops his father’s dead weight on the hallway floor with a thump, takes a quick step back, breathing just as hard and tense, waiting for more. But Terry doesn’t move and the space around them is entirely still. He looks at Ian, Ian's little sister crouching down next to him, and then at Mandy. 

 

Mandy’s eyes are wide and freaked-out in her face, “Dad _knows?_ ” She demands breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest. 

 

“Ian, Ian,” Debbie’s voice is pitched high, frantic, small hands touching her brother’s arm and chest and face, lightly and carefully and shaking, “Ian - ”

 

“M’okay, Debs, s’okay,” he mumbles, blinking hard; there’s a slice across his eyebrow, dripping blood into his eye and it takes him a moment to realize he’d slid down the wall when Mickey had pulled Terry off of him, was sitting on his ass with his back against it. He lifts a hand to wipe his eyes, focusing on Debbie, “M’okay,” he tells her again.

 

Debbie’s crying though, tears wet on her face, “I don’t believe you, I don’t - ” She looks up at Mandy with helpless eyes. 

 

And Mandy wants to take the pan Debbie had brought her and fucking smash her father in the head with it again. _Fuck._

 

She crouches down next to Ian too, “Hey,” she says to him, her voice sharp with worry, “Your brain broken?” She touches his chin gently, searching his face; touches fingertips to his nose, his cheeks—there had been bruises and scrapes there already and it was hard to see what was new and what wasn’t. 

 

Ian snorts a little, shaking his head out of her hold; wincing, “Nah, no. Just - ” he looks around slowly. Mickey’s standing at his feet though, right in front of him. Ian tips his head back, looks at him. Mickey’s bleeding too; looks like he wants to puke as much as Ian does. 

 

He holds up a hand towards him, “Up,” he says. 

 

And Mickey doesn’t say anything for the moment, just grabs him by the wrist, and pulls him up off the floor with one slow, careful motion. He waits until Ian’s steady before letting go and then, “This is why you don’t fucking come here anymore, you _got_ it?” He bites out, eyes hot on Ian’s face.

 

“Yeah,” Ian’s voice is flat, “Lucky your wife wasn’t around this time—wouldn’t want to hurt the baby.” It’s not a taunt and it’s not sincere and his face hurts enough that he doesn’t give a shit about what it’s supposed to mean. 

 

Mickey's mouth thins, "Lucky the _gun_ wasn't around this time. Don't come around around here anymore." 

 

Debbie’s arms are folding around Ian's middle then, hugging him gently, and he puts a hand to her head automatically, keeps his eyes on Mickey. 

 

“ _I_ wanted to come here,” she says, her eyes dark on Mickey’s face, “We’re having a party tonight, I came to tell Mandy.” Her voice isn’t shaking anymore and her mouth sets in a straight line when she stops talking, even though her cheeks are still wet with tears, . 

 

“I’ll be there,” Mandy nods a little, her eyes going to her Dad; unconscious on the floor. 

 

Debbie follows her gaze, arms tightening around Ian for a second before she pulls back, takes his hand, “You can stay over,” she tells Mandy, pulling Ian forward, towards the front the door, “In my room, okay?” 

 

Mandy’s lips quirk very slightly, “We’ll see,” she says, but touches a hand to Ian’s back as he moves to follow her. 

 

He gives her the slightest of smiles, sobering as he moves past Mickey. Ian grits his teeth but he doesn’t look away, makes himself look at Mickey’s eyes and the blood and thinks of the way this had ended last time; he doesn’t look away—and Mickey doesn’t either, so maybe that’s something.

 

 

II

 

 

The Milkovich house is deathly still when Debbie shuts the front door behind her. 

 

Mandy’s staring down at their Dad so intently, so furiously, Mickey wouldn’t be surprised if flames started burning around the asshole. 

 

She moves then, no-tell, just how her brothers taught her; one quick and sharp kick to his body, then another and another and another.

 

And Mickey lets her, watches her kick at him, until she’s breathless again, until she screams, _Fuck_ , because it all clicks together and she can finally see how fucked everything really is. 

 

“When?” 

 

She hisses it at him, those dark blue eyes fixed on his face now, and he blinks at her, not following, “What?” 

 

“ _When_ did Dad _catch_ you _fucking_ Ian?” She elaborates. 

 

They don’t talk about this, they never talk about it. She doesn’t bother asking because there's Sveltlana and a baby and even though she knows now that none of that can be real, it's easier than _how long_ and _do you love him_ and _were you ever going to tell me._

 

Mickey blows out breath, lifts a hand to rub at his face, and winces, _right_. He drops his arm, looks at their Dad again; stares at him hard and wonders why the fuck he doesn’t feel like kicking the shit out of him the way Mandy had just done. 

 

He jumps when she touches his shoulder, “The fuck?” he snaps, glaring at her. 

 

She glares back and then shoves him forward, “Walk, assface,” she shoves him into the kitchen, throws a wet rag at his chest a minute later, “You look like a fightclub reject.” 

 

He catches it when it drops, looks down at it, and then touches it carefully to his nose. 

 

“I asked you a fucking question,” she continues, opening the freezer and then the refrigerator. They don’t have anything that’s frozen so she settles for grabbing two beer bottles, holds one up to her cheek and sets the other on the table for him. 

 

Mickey shrugs, drops the rag on the table when he’s finished, and uncaps the beer; takes a long swallow. 

 

“ _Mickey,_ ” Mandy scowls. 

 

“None of your goddamn business,” he retorts, but there’s not enough heat in it; not like there should be; it doesn’t really matter when anymore, none of it really matter anymore. 

 

“Ian is my business,” Mandy says fiercely, her voice hard, because there’s no argument on that, “And someone needs to fucking take care of yours because you sure as shit can’t do it,” she glares at him, “So answer my question.” 

 

Mickey shrugs again, it doesn’t matter. “That time with CPS, he stayed over here.” 

 

He doesn’t add anything more and Mandy makes a motion with her hand, “And?” 

 

“And he caught us, I’m answering your goddamn question,” he snaps at her.

 

“What else _happened_ , fuckface.” 

 

“The fuck does that matter? He caught us; it ended after Dad beat the shit out of us.” 

 

Her jaw clenches a little but she pushes anyway, “Just like that?” She demands, “And what? Dad backs off if you marry the first mini skirt you see?” 

 

Mickey gives her a hard look, “Somethin’ like that.” He finishes the beer and goes to the refrigerator, gets the vodka out. 

 

“That kid’s not even yours,” Mandy accuses, watching him. The drinking made more sense now; meant he at least gave half a fuck about Ian. 

 

Mickey takes a swallow right from the bottle, fully intends to finish it tonight. “Could be mine - ”

 

She rolls her eyes, “How could - ”

 

“I fucked her,” he tells her, then adds, “Day Dad found us; I fucked her. On the couch.” He doesn’t add that Ian had had to watch; or that there’d been a gun in their father’s hand; doesn’t have to. Mandy knows their Dad. 

 

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, a sick feeling twisting inside her; everything is making more sense now. Mickey’s dumbass marriage to a pregnant skank, Ian’s stupid idea to enlist, that look on their faces like someone was twisting a fucking noose around their throats. 

 

“Dad’s a prick, fuck all what he thinks,” she says.

 

“What he thinks isn’t actually my fucking problem,” Mickey says roughly, picking at one of his nails. “His trigger-happy finger now - ” he makes a face, _that was a problem_.

 

And Mandy can’t argue it, but she needs to argue something, because this is all _shit_. “Ian- actually gives a fuck about you, you know that?” She tells him, her voice darkening a little; tinged with that barely-there bitterness that bubbles up sometimes when she thinks about Ian “Do you get that?” He needs to get that, what that means, to have someone like Ian, as good as Ian, _give a fuck_. 

 

He fidgets, not looking at her face, “Fuck off okay, I - ”

 

“Do you _get_ that?” She cuts in. 

 

“I get it,” he snaps at her, “And _you_ get that if anyone has an interest in Gallagher fucking _breathing_ while he’s living in this town then that shit doesn’t matter, right? You _get_ that?” 

 

Mandy’s fist clench, “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna do?” 

 

“Do you have a fucking suggestion?” He retorts.

 

“Yeah, grow a fucking a pair.”

 

“And do _what_ Mandy? Kill Dad? You think I haven’t thought about it? You think - ” he stops. 

 

And Mandy stops too. Because she’s thought about it too (had just thought about ten minutes ago). 

 

But you don’t come back from that; and it makes her feel sick again. How fucked they were with this; she looks away. 

 

And they’re both quiet then, getting their space back; finding their feet. 

 

It’s Mickey that breaks the silence, “We should clear out before he - you know,” he tilts his head towards his Dad. They wouldn’t want to be home when he got up. 

 

“Fuck him,” Mandy glares. She pauses though, because she could go to the Gallagher’s, but Mickey was just going to wander into some bar, “I’ll call and see where Iggy’s at,” she adds after a second, “We’ll dump’m near a bar. He’ll go on a bender when he wakes up, cool off.” 

 

Mickey looks at her for a beat and then nods; they won’t see’m for another day like that and Iggy won’t ask questions if Mandy tells him to do it, “Fine.” 

 

“Say thank you, fuckface,” she growls at him, shoving his shoulder as she moves past him to go get the phone. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you.” He calls after her.

 

 

II

 

.tbc.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and to everyone that's left kudos/notes. I really appreciate it. :) The story's grown another chapter... so this isn't the end yet.

 

 

 

 

Debbie’s quiet, calm, on their walk home, doesn’t say anything when Ian asks her if she’s okay, just holds on to his hand and keeps them moving forward towards their house. 

 

So Ian talks instead; even though it kind of hurts. He tells her that he’s okay, tells her that it doesn’t hurt, that the face always bleeds a lot, that it’s the blood that makes it look bad, but it isn’t; he promises that it’s not going to happen again because _you heard it, I’m gonna avoid going there for awhile_ and he keeps rubbing at her back, keeps saying it over and over again ( _I’m okay, it’s okay_ )—but Debbie doesn’t say anything, she’s quiet and calm all the way home.

 

As soon as they step into the house and the back door closes behind them though, she shouts “ _Fiona!_ ” Letting go of Ian’s hand to go stand at the bottom of the kitchen steps, “Fiona! I need you!” 

 

And he blows out a breath, touching a hand to his temple. “Debbie - ” he tries to stop her. His head is starting to pound, adrenaline fading, and what he really wants is to head upstairs and climb into his bed, just be left alone for a while; something that isn't going to happen if Debbie keeps hollering—which she does. 

 

“Lip!” The younger girl calls; in the living room now, one foot on the bottom step as she looks up, “Fiona! Lip! I need you!” 

 

“Debs…” Ian says tiredly, following her into the living room. He lowers himself onto the couch with a sigh, it’s not his bed, but it’s good enough for right now; he thinks maybe two fights in two days might be pushing it a little bit. 

 

“Fio - ”

 

“What, _what?_ ” Fiona says on a rush, coming in from the kitchen, “Debbie, what’s going on? Why’re you - holy shit,” she gasps, catching sight of Ian, “Jesus Ian, again? What the fuck happened?” She drops down on the sofa next to him, reaching for his face.

 

Lip comes thundering down the steps before Ian speaks, Carl right on his heels, “What’s with the - ” he skids to a stop, eyes on Ian, “Holy shit,” he echoes his sister.

 

“Whoa!” Carl exclaims, “Who’d you fight? Did you break his kneecaps?” 

 

“Nah,” Ian says quickly, voice hoarse. Fiona’s fingertips touch his chin lightly, turning his head a little, and he winces, “Looks worse than it is…” he tells her, offering a half-smile.

 

“Oh yeah?” Fiona scowls, “You seen it yet?” She demands, “What happened? I thought you were goin’ to Mandy’s. Deb, get something from the freezer will ya?” 

 

“Yeah, I - ”

 

“Terry Milkovich hit him,” Debbie interrupts Ian, ignoring Fiona, her voice low, serious. She looks at her sister and then at Lip, eyes anxious, “He said Ian was a faggot. He said he would kill him this time.” 

 

Ian sighs, “Debbie - ”

 

“He said he could do it with his fists and not a gun,” she continues, “He was trying to choke him, he was going to do it, and then Mickey jumped on him and pulled him off, and then I got the frying pan, and then Mandy hit him in the head with it,” it all comes out in a rush, the threat of tears behind every word, and Lip drops an arm around her shoulders automatically, giving her a little squeeze. 

 

“Shit, shit,” Fiona whispers, fingers curling around Ian’s wrist, “Ian - ”

 

“He’s not gonna kill me,” he says to her with another small, half smile,“Trust me. Had his chance already and didn’t.” 

 

Fiona shakes her head, not comforted, “Shit.” She leans up to put a kiss to his temple impulsively, still holding on to his arm. 

 

Carl turns around abruptly, heading for the steps. 

 

“Hey, eh,” Lip grabs him by the back of shirt, stopping him; other arm still around Debbie, “Where're you goin?” 

 

“Killing-bat,” Carl says firmly. 

 

“No.” Lip replies, pulling him back with a gentle swing towards the coffee table, “Vee’s,” he says, “Tell her we need her to look at Ian and to bring the med kit over.” 

 

“No,” Ian says quickly, jerking his head towards Lip and Carl, “That’s not- no.” He looks at Lip hard then, because yeah they’re pissed at each other, but he _needs_ Lip to listen to him right now, “Not even Vee,” he tells him; and its not about him. He doesn’t care if she knows about him, is rapidly getting to the point where he doesn’t care if anyone in this shitty neighborhood knows—he’s gay, so what? You’re a drunk and you’re a sex addict and you do cocaine with your morning cup of coffee—who cares?

 

“Ian -” Lip starts.

 

Mickey cares. “I’m fine,” Ian says, staring at Lip, “I swear. I don’t need her to look me over or anything. I’m just banged up, a little. That’s all.”

 

Lip holds his gaze for a second, his mouth puckering the way Ian knows it does when he’s uncertain about something, and then he tugs Carl around, in front of the steps, “Upstairs bathroom,” he tells him, “Peroxide, towel, band-aids, whatever you can find.” 

 

Carl rolls his eyes, frowning, and looking at Fiona. 

 

She nods, gives him an encouraging smile, “Please.”

 

“Fine,” Carl huffs, stomping his feet on his way up the steps. 

 

“It’s not that bad,” Ian says again, shifting, but his voice is starting to sound scratchy, the aching along windpipe starting to turn into throbbing. 

 

Fiona touches fingertips lightly to his throat, “Jesus Ian…” she whispers, pressing her lips together as she looks at the vivid bruising that’s beginning to show up, “Debbie, grab a dish towel, would ya?” she says, tilting Ian’s head back gently, “Run it under cold water… and whatever’s frozen.” 

 

Debbie nods, moving to do as asked this time without arguing. 

 

Lip perches on the armrest, getting a cigarette out because it’s all he has on him, “Anything broken?” He asks around it, lighting it a beat later. 

 

Ian shakes his slightly, says, “Really not that bad,” again, starting to feel like a broken record.

 

“Weren’t fucking when the old man walked in this time were you?” Lip wonders, ignoring what Ian’s saying and passing the lit cigarette to him instead.

 

“No,” Ian murmurs, taking it and bringing it to his mouth. He hands it back when the burns along his throat.

 

“This happen before?” Fiona asks, brushing her fingers through Ian’s hair; the gesture halfway between checking for injuries and wanting to soothe.

 

“It - ” his voice catches though, because _before_ flashes in his mind, and he’s not sure he’s ever going to have those words. 

 

“He caught them before,” Lip answers for him, “Yeah,” he takes a drag, motioning towards Ian as he exhales smoke, “The beating-the-shit-out-of-him is new to me.” Shouldn’t’ve been though, he should have filled that part in when Ian had told him about it. 

 

“It’s what Terry said,” Debbie tells them, standing at Fiona’s shoulder now. There’s a rag in one of her hands, a small bowl in the other, and frozen bag of broccoli over her arm, “He said he’d kill Ian this time, he said it like there’d been another time.” 

 

“Debs…” Ian sighs again. He lifts a hand to rub at his face and it _hurts_ —his hand from yesterday and his face from today and Debbie had _heard_ all that shit. He squeezes his eyes shut, head falling forward a little, “ _Fuck_.”

 

“Wrong way, bud, tilt back,” Fiona murmurs, touching a hand to his forehead softly, guiding his head back, “Keep that there,” she says, laying the cool cloth along his throat, “It’s already swelling.”

 

“Starting to feel like it,” he admits, bringing a hand up to touch at it, shifting a little on the couch.

 

Fiona swats at his hand lightly, says, “Leave it,” quietly, curling her fingers around his, using the end of her sleeve to wipe at some of the dried blood. She takes the frozen bag Debbie offers her and touches it to the one side of Ian’s face carefully. He flinches and she makes a soft, automatic shushing sound that they all pretend not hear, then reaches for Ian’s hand and brings it up, “Hold that there,” she tells him softly.

 

He keeps his eyes closed as he touches the bag, holding it in place, can feel the way all three of them are watching him; and it’s the tiniest bit more bearable if he doesn’t have to see it. 

 

“So what exactly set him off?” Lip asks, “If not the fucking?” 

 

He slits his eyes open, looking at his older brother, “Lip,” he warns; acutely aware that Debbie is still in the room. 

 

“Valid question,” Fiona offers with a small nod, her fingers smoothing his arm little circles on his arm. 

 

Ian shakes his head the slightest bit, “Yeah, but just…” he trails off.

 

“I don’t care,” Debbie says into the silence that follows; she’s sitting on the coffee table now, her hands on her knees, watching them—piecing together that Fiona and Lip knew, that Ian was worried, that even within the three of them they weren’t telling each other everything these days, “You’re my brother. I don’t care that you’re gay.” 

 

“Ian’s _actually_ gay?” Carl asks, standing on the bottom steps with an armful of supplies from the bathroom. 

 

They all lift their gazes to him, even Ian shifts to look at him; it’s Debbie who answers though, “Yeah,” she says with a little shrug to one shoulder.

 

“I _knew_ it,” Carl says proudly, stepping onto the floor and approaching them. He dumps everything on the seat nearest Fiona, “I knew Jimmy made up that thing up about _your dick in my Dad’s mouth_! Nobody says shit like - ”

 

“Carl - ” Debbie kicks him in the shin. They don’t talk about Jimmy. 

 

“Ow,” he growls, leaping at her immediately and shoving her in the shoulder hard. 

 

Debbie glares at him, reaching over and pinching him in the side just as hard; tired of having to explain the same over and over to him— _Jimmy makes Fiona sad_ —it wasn’t complicated.

 

Carl makes a grab for her hair and Lip yanks him backwards just before he makes contact, “Think there’s been enough fighting for the week, hm.” 

 

Carl scowls at Debbie, “Sleep with your _eyes_ open.” 

 

“I will _stab_ you,” she threatens.

 

“Nobody’s going to stab anybody,” Fiona cuts in. “You were saying?” She prompts Ian, shifting and dabbing at the blood on his face with the corner of the towel Carl had brought, “What set him off?”

 

Ian doesn’t say anything though, because just like that—his whole family knows he’s gay; and it’s a weird feeling suddenly, that Liam’s probably just going to grow up knowing, that it’s never going to be anything but normal. 

 

Fiona works on his face quietly, waiting for him to answer; dabbing the blood away and touching antibiotic cream to raw-looking abrasions with cotton balls, trying to avoid making him wince. No one says anything, not even Lip, and when the silence starts to feel heavy, she prompts him again for an answer, says, “Ian,” and takes the cloth from his neck, handing it to Debbie, before she dabs at a nasty gash on along one of his eyebrows, cleaning the blood away as gently as she can manage. 

 

Debbie hands the washcloth back, cool and damp, and asks Ian quietly, “S’it hurt to talk?” 

 

And he blinks then, bringing himself out of his daze, “No, it’s- uh, it’s - ” it kind of does though, his head hurts too, “Nothing,” he answers Fiona finally though, “I was there and it - ” his mouth quirks, “I’m not gonna go around there anymore,” he murmurs. 

 

“Fuckin’ think so?” Lip rolls his eyes, cigarette between his lips.

 

“It wasn’t Ian’s fault, Lip,” Debbie scolds him. 

 

“Nobody’s sayin’ it is, Debs,” Fiona murmurs to her sister, brushing her fingers through Ian’s hair, “Go upstairs, get cleaned up, yeah?” She tells him softly, lifting her eyes to Lip a moment later— wordlessly questioning. 

 

Lip holds her gaze for a second, then, “Get up assface—we got a party in an hour and your face is gonna scare the neighbors,” he says, chuffing the back of Ian’s head lightly. 

 

Ian rolls his eyes, “No more than yours on a good day,” he says, shifting to get up. 

 

“Aren’t we going to throw bricks through the Milkovich windows or something?” Carl asks as Ian rounds the couch towards the steps. 

 

Debbie purses her lips a little, then shrugs, looking at Fiona. Because they should; Terry Milkovich wanted to _kill_ Ian.

 

“We’re not throwing bricks through windows,” Fiona says quickly, rubbing at Carl’s head as she gets up. 

 

Lip gives Carl a smirk, pinched just slightly at the corners. “Probably wouldn’t make much of a difference to their decor anyway, bud.” 

 

“Carl, help with the balloons, would ya?” Fiona tells him, “Should be a bag of’m in the shed… and we need to clear a space for the cake in the freezer… Debs?” 

 

“We really don’t - ”

 

“Stop fucking talking,” Lip interrupts Ian, a hand at his back as they start up the steps, “Starting to sound like old man Norman.” 

 

“He’s like a hundred years old, Lip.”

 

“And a smoker for 90 of’m—my point exactly.” 

 

“Carl?” Fiona says, giving him a smile. 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, moving out of the living and towards the backdoor. 

 

Debbie watches Lip nudge Ian up the stairs, her eyes serious, and Fiona doesn’t say anything for a moment; watches her little sister. 

 

“You’re okay?” She asks after a moment, touching a hand to her back, rubbing gently, “He didn’t touch you, right?” 

 

Debbie shakes her head, still not moving. “I was in Mandy’s room—we heard the crashing and then - ” she looks up at Fiona, “He really wanted to hurt him.” 

 

It makes Fiona’s stomach clench, goosebumps prickle her skin, but she nods a little, smoothes Debbie’s hair softly, “He’s okay.” 

 

It’s right there between them though, in the silence— _this time._

 

“Come on, Debs,” Fiona murmurs, rubbing at her back again, “Cake, freezer…” 

 

“Right, yeah,” Debbie says, nodding slowly, but she makes no motion to move, “Fiona,” she says evenly, looking up to meet Fiona’s gaze. 

 

And Fiona licks her lips a little, “Later, okay? Vee’s gonna be here any second and she’s bringing Ginger, that’ll be nice right?” 

 

“Yeah,” Debbie says soberly, “That’ll be nice.” She finally moves then, towards the kitchen, away from Fiona, and does what her big sister wants her to do—not think about this right now. 

 

Fiona watches her for a moment, mouth pressed together tightly; Debbie wasn’t hurt and Ian would be fine. They’d drink, have cake, and laugh; it was fine. _This time._

 

She takes the steps two at a time. Lip’s already helping Ian get his shirt off in the bathroom, the shower running, steam filling the room. She stops in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the doorjamb, “What’s this about a gun?”

 

Lip steps back, dropping Ian’s shirt onto the pile of clothes on the floor, and looking at Ian with a pointed expression. They’d been quiet once they’d reached the second floor, a tentative and likely momentary truce. Lip had been careful when he’d helped Ian out of his jeans, steadying and slow; and he’d been careful when he’d tugged the shirt off him just now too, his movements gentle and deliberate. Because yeah, he’d put a good amount of these bruises on Ian himself, but he was fucking _allowed_ to so Carl was actually right about this, there were bricks in the Milkoviches future—just not their windows, more like Terry Milkovich’s goddamn _head_. 

 

“Well?” He says impatiently when Ian doesn’t respond. 

 

And Ian’s tired enough that he just tells them, can’t think of a reason not to all of a sudden, “Mickey’s Dad caught us,” he mumbles, which Lip already knew, “When I tried to leave to he pulled a gun on me. He didn’t fire it or anything, just used it to beat the shit out of Mickey and to… keep us there for a while.”

 

“He didn’t _fire it or anything_ ,” Fiona echoes incredulously, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me about this?” 

 

“There was a lot going on,” he reminds her, “With CPS and the hearing.” 

 

“He _pointed a gun_ at you, Ian,” Fiona snaps, then runs a hand through her hair, “That _fucker_.”

 

“It’s over, Fiona, it’s not - ”

 

“It doesn’t look _over_ to me, Ian. He attacked you.” 

 

“I was in his house - ”

 

“Yeah, standing in it. Not trying to burn it down!” 

 

“And I’m not going to be there anymore so it - ”

 

“Yeah, and what about the street? The grocery store? The fuckin’ Alibi even,” Lip picks up, his voice deceptively even, “What I’m getting is that what set him off was you being.” 

 

“Because Mickey was there,” Ian points out, “It- that’s not gonna happen again.” 

 

“You’re never gonna be in the same room with his son again?” Fiona asks skeptically. 

 

“No.” 

 

She blows out a breath; they all know that’s not true. “Ian - ” 

 

“Hey yo, Gallaghers! We partyin’ or what?” Veronica’s voice calls up to them from the living room and they startle a little. 

 

For a moment no one says anything and then Ian sighs, “Can I just take a shower now?” He motions to the running water, adds, “Veronica’s here…” unnecessarily. 

 

“We have to do something about this,” Fiona says seriously, her eyes going to Lip. 

 

“ _Do_ something about it?” Ian echoes and something bitter slips into his voice, “He’s a homophobic asshole, Fiona, there’s nothing to _do_ about it. He’s not gonna change and he’s not gonna suddenly stop using his fists to get his point across.” 

 

And it hurts that she can’t actually argue with him on that; he’s right. 

 

“We’ll talk about this later,” Lip states, a hand latching on to Fiona’s arm, tugging her with him as he leaves, “Try not to slip and concuss yourself any more, hm,” he says over his shoulder to Ian, “Pretty sure you’ve lost all the brain cells you can spare.” 

 

“Dickhead,” Ian mumbles under his breath, his quirking in a little smile as he shuts the door behind them; blowing out a slow breath and relaxing finally now that he’s alone. 

 

In the hallway, Lip lets go of Fiona’s arm and she meets his gaze; there’s music suddenly, means Veronica must have found Debbie by now, maybe Carl’s inside with the balloons already.

 

“Later,” she says with a little nod and he nods back at her; they’re agreed—they have to do something about this. 

 

She heads down the hall to get Liam from his nap and then pastes a smile onto her face, takes a deep breath, and heads down the steps; they need a party.

 

 

II

 

 

Iggy brings a van when Mandy tells him she needs Dad gone for a few days, his eyes linger on the cut across her cheek for a second too long, and he takes care of getting their Dad out of there quickly and without questions. By the time he’s left Mickey’s in the living room with a joint—which he actually holds out to share with her when she stops by the sofa. Probably his actual thank-you.

 

So that by the time she gets to the Gallagher house it’s late; the house is loud and full of people and she’s feeling pretty mellow about the whole shitstorm that went down earlier; at least she knows exactly what fuckery she’s dealing with now.

 

She slips inside through the back door when everyone is singing along to some song, nothing she recognizes; it’s cheery, upbeat, and there’s a sneaking suspicion in her foggy mind that it’s a Christmas song. She wanders around the edges of the room, snags herself a cup and fills it with vodka from one of the bottles that are around. They’re all wearing party hats or holiday hats, cups full and smiling; balloons hanging from all over the place and giant banner in the middle of the room.

 

Fiona sees her mid-song, stops bouncing the baby Gallagher in her arms long enough to give Mandy a serious-as-hell look she’s not going to put half-a-fuck into interpreting; then Fiona taps Debbie’s shoulder, nods her chin in Mandy’s direction.

 

Debbie cuts herself off, grinning and moving towards her. Lip looks up too and she stares at him until Debbie’s hands are on her arms, “You’re here,” she says, pleased.

 

And Mandy pulls her gaze from Lip’s, “Always up for a party,” she tells the little girl, “You look happy.”

 

“Parties’re what Gallagher’s do best,” Debbie recites. There’s a lilt to her voice that isn’t as innocent as it used to be though.

 

“Making a lot of shitty noise more like it.” The younger brother is running around with another little shithead his same size blowing noise-makers and setting off sparklers.

 

Debbie shrugs, smiling a little, her eyes on the other boy for a beat. “Christmas carols,” she offers and bends down to pick up a paper santa hat from the floor, reaches up to plop it on Mandy’s head.

 

“We’re getting a tree. We’re going to decorate it tomorrow, so I wanted to sing Christmas songs,” she smiles, “To get everyone in the mood,” she rushes on, her voice loud to be heard over the music. “We had cake already, but there’s cookies—Ginger made them,” Debbie takes her hand, pulling her along to the kitchen, “Veronica took her back to the home already, she came back with more alcohol so it was a good trip. They’re really good, the cookies...”

 

“Okay,” Mandy drawls, looking over at her with some amusement, letting herself be led.

 

In the kitchen, Debbie goes quiet; lets go of her arm and gives Mandy a look almost as serious as Fiona’s had been, “Do you think your Dad’s gonna want to hurt Ian again?” She asks, straight-to-the-point.

 

Mandy likes that. “Dad’s gonna be out of town for a few days,” she tells her, “After that, I don’t know. Probably not going to go out of his way to do it though.”

 

Debbie nods, sliding the plate (only 3 cookies left) towards Mandy, “Does your face hurt?” She asks her, looking at the bruise closely for a moment.

 

Mandy’s lips quirk in a little smile, “Not right now.” She’s kind of floating right now.

 

“Did you know?” Debbie continues, her voice is almost too quiet to be heard over the music from the other room now, “About Ian being gay.”

 

Mandy nods, taking a cookie. The Gallagher house can be fucking _cheery_ ; there are polka dots on the dumbass plate, she notices, what the fuck is that about?

 

“You did?” Debbie says, her voice light again; and Mandy looks up in time to see something like relief flicker across her face.

 

“Course, yeah,” she nods again, taking a bite.

 

“Good, that’s really good, I thought - ”

 

“Debbie!!” Veronica shouts, laughter in her voice, something crashes to the floor then and there’s more laughter; the volume on the music dropping and then going up again erratically, “Fiona’s trying to kill the mood!”

 

Debbie turns towards the door automatically, “You said three christmas songs!”

 

“It’s been five!”

 

“Has not!” She calls back. She’s almost through the door when she turns back to Mandy, “Come on...” she says easily.

 

And she lifts her cup at the little girl, “Right behind ya.” She drinks first though, gets herself a refill and then Mandy goes to Ian first, because Lip can go fuck himself.

 

Ian’s sitting on the bottom step of the stairs in the living room, looking drowsy and comfortable in a sweatshirt with a beer in his hand, a party hat on his head, and a shit-ton of party streamers all over him, “Hey,” she says smoothly, “You look festive.”

 

“They decorated me,” he tells her wryly, looking up at her with half-lidded eyes. They’ve been piling Christmas decorations all around too, he tells her, Debbie had used the party guests for manual labor in getting everything out for that tree they had coming. He talks to her like he’s high on something and she gets down on the step next to him, crawling closer to him, so she can hear him over the music.

 

“Ah,” she says, searching his face; he looks like shit—so she gives her cup of vodka.

 

He takes it, giving her another lazy smile, before he looks down into the cup—he doesn’t know what to say.

 

He lets her when she slides the beer out of his hand, looks over at her again, watches her take a drink from it, “My party you know,” he tells her, feels like he should say something to her.

 

“Only reason I’m here,” she responds quietly and slides her arms around him then, pressing herself against his side.

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, tucks his face against her shoulder. He doesn’t _have_ anything to say to her, doesn’t really need to. Mandy would know already that he’d needed to _do_ something and that's why he left, that he wasn’t sorry, that he’d miss her and he’d miss this, but he’d still go again when he could; just like how he knew she’d missed him, would always miss him when he wasn’t here, and that she’d always let him in when he needed to talk. You didn’t have to say those things to your best friend.

 

So there’s nothing for him to say to her... except maybe, “S’where’s Mickey at?”

 

“Home,” she murmurs near his ear.

 

And he frowns, “Your Dad?”

 

“ _Not_ home,” she answers. 

 

“Hm,” he sighs, “Good... 'cause your Dad and... and Mick- it- ” he stops for a beat, his thoughts sort of scattering, drifting, falling back to that one that's on a loop, that's been on a loop, that he can't kill. “He got _married_.”

 

Mandy squeezes her eyes shut, “I know,” she murmurs and it sounds a lot like _I'm sorry_ even to her own ears. 

 

Ian doesn't say anything at that, doesn't move for another moment, but then he sighs, pulling back and looking at her with slow, dazed blinks. She stays close to him though, an arm around his back, “You’re on good stuff, huh?” She teases. 

 

And that makes him smirk a little, “Kev brought it over after he saw me.”

 

“Pathetic works for you.”

 

“My bread and butter.”

 

“Don’t I know it,” she smiles, nudging his shoulder.

 

“Yeah,” he nudges back. “You would.”

 

She nods a slowly, her smile fading, “I know everything now?”

 

He doesn’t pretend not to know what she means, finds her hand instead and gives it a squeeze. “I wanted to.”

 

_Tell you everything, ask for advice, get help._

 

It’s all there and she hears it, gives his hand a returning squeeze. “Yeah well, next time do it, dipshit,” she tells him, then elbows him lightly, “ _Not_ recommending you fuck any of my other brothers.”

 

Ian huffs a laugh at that, “Yeah, no. No problem there. I think I hit my Milkovich tolerance level.” He slides her a look, “’cept for present company obviously.”

 

Her gaze zeroes in on Lip abruptly, “Not for all of you.”

 

Ian follows her gaze. Lip’s helping Debbie set up a some board game Vee had brought over on the coffee table; making their little sister laugh. He glances at Mandy, “Some of us are dicks.”

 

Her lips quirk, but she doesn’t look over at him. It’s fucking ridiculous that she’s _still_ feeling sad or upset or whatever the fuck it is over _Lip Gallagher_ —fuck him. 

 

She glares at him instead of looking at Ian, because Ian would see through to that part she can’t quite figure out; that part that’s disappointed and hurt and furious all at the same time. “Yeah,” she murmurs.

 

Ian puts his arm around her and they just sit there for awhile; arms around each other, trading sips of warm beer and warm vodka back and forth, watching as they set the game up, the baby wandering in out of each group until Fiona picks him up, settling him on her lap. 

 

The teams are already formed when someone realizes the guest of honour isn’t actually playing.

 

“Ian! Get over here!” Kev calls, “You too lady, time to get our apples to apples on, man.”

 

“Apples?” She lifts an eyebrow.

 

Ian nods, laughing a little, “You’re gonna hate it,” he says easily, reaching a hand up to the banister to pull himself to his feet.

 

She grabs his other arm, helping him up, says, “Great,” dryly.

 

They make room for Ian on the sofa and Mandy drops down on the rug near him, Debbie crawling in next to her on one side while she announces that Mandy would be on her team.

 

It makes Fiona roll her eyes, share a look with Vee, and Mandy’s wondering what that’s about when Debbie gives her a conspiratorial smile, whispers, “Let’s win.”

 

And Mandy decides that yeah, she’s gonna kick ass at Apples.

 

 

II

 

 

It’s fucking stupid game; even if they’re all laughing by the end of the first round. But by the third she’s sure it’s just an excuse for the Gallagher’s to shout at each other—and who needs an excuse for that?

 

She’s making a move to get up, wants a refill and maybe it’s time to leave, when her eyes catch Lip’s. And it’s too much of a habit, he looks at her and she holds his gaze, and when she gets up a few minutes later, she knows he’s going to follow.

 

And he does.

 

She’s sitting on the kitchen table, feet dangling, hands curled around the edge when he walks in. She looks up, watches him as he walks right to her, the way his eyes move over her face slowly.

 

He clamps his hands around her forearms tightly, grabs her like he’s going to shake her, but he doesn’t; and she doesn’t flinch.

 

His hands tighten, fingers digging into her skin, “Your fucking _father._ ” He bites out.

 

He doesn’t say anything else; that’s kind of all there is to it.

 

“Yeah.” She agrees; watching him as closely as he’s watching her.

 

Lip stares at her like he’s looking for something, like she’s supposed to say something else when they both she won’t. Yeah, she’d fucked up Karen’s life; and Karen had been going to fuck up his—choice of one or the other wasn’t even a choice to Mandy.

 

It’s not a surprise when he kisses her, presses his mouth to hers hard in a rough kiss that’s going to leave her mouth hot and aching; it’s not a surprise when she kisses him back either, giving back that same savagery, wanting his mouth ache with her for the rest of the night. But when his arms go around her, like he’s going to slide her off the table, and she stiffens, fingers fisting around the front of his shirt and shoving him away, that’s surprise that flickers over his face.

 

She looks at him, tip of her tongue touching her bottom lip, as she shoves him back further, slides off the table. She doesn’t know exactly when Lip Gallagher got under her skin, got to be this pulsing knot of _whatever_ inside her, but she knows it’s probably fucked her up for life; made her want things and think of things she had no business turning around in her head.

 

Which is why she leaves him there in the kitchen without another word; slips out the way she’d come in and lets the backdoor slam shut behind her. 

 

 

II

 

 

The party ends as most do at the Gallagher house, with the six of them piled onto sofas and Vee and Kev sharing an armchair; it’s well after midnight when the couple leaves, Fiona walking them out with a tired easy smile and her hair a disarray. 

 

There’s a mess behind her; empty cups and bottles and food dishes, balloons and streamers and enough holiday decorations to cover the floor, but she gives them a friendly, relaxed wave. The party atmosphere had done them all good, laughing had done them good.

 

“You send little Hank home?” She asks Carl as she shuts the door, moving to settle on the couch, shifting Ian over a little. He’d fallen asleep sometime during their game, slumped into the corner of the couch; Kev had brought the good pain killers after all. And Fiona had been debating waking him up, asking Lip to help him move up to his room, when Lip had walked in with a sleeping Liam in his arms.

 

“Yeah,” Carl answers, stretching out on the floor with a yawn. 

 

Fiona smiles a little, “Bed might be better,” she tells him softly, keeping it low for the sake her sleeping brothers. It feels like they all just want to be here for right now though, so she doesn’t push it. 

 

“Look,” Debbie says, her voice as soft as Fiona’s, just before she shuts the lights off. 

 

“Hey - ” 

 

Carl’s protest is cut off when Debbie plugs the christmas tree lights in. She’d spread them out all over the living room floor and furniture, gotten everyone to help untangling them, and now they lit up the whole with soft, bouncing spots of color. 

 

“Oh cool,” Carl breathes, holding his hand up to catch a spot of color against his palm. 

 

“Most of them work,” Debbie notes, pleased, sitting next to Fiona and giving her a smile, sweet enough that it makes the older girl’s throat tighten. 

 

“Good,” she nods, pressing her lips together in a smile. She reaches over impulsively and draws Debbie closer, against her side, presses a kiss to her hair. And Debbie lets her, sighing a little, leaning her head against Fiona’s shoulder. 

 

It’s almost like it’s easier to breathe when it’s like this, Debbie at one side of Fiona and Ian asleep at the other, Carl stretched out on the floor in front of them, head pillowed on his arm, Liam asleep across Lip’s lap, and the house quiet around them. 

 

“Okay, so - ” Carl shifts on the floor, “Like- today- but why did Terry Milkovich want to hurt Ian?” Carl’s voice is curious, not exactly quiet; his eyes first on Lip and then on Fiona, looking between them. 

 

“Because Ian’s _gay_ , Carl,” Debbie says lowly, glancing around Fiona quickly to make sure Ian’s still asleep.

 

“Yeah, I _got_ that, but what difference does that make to - ”

 

“Some people are assholes, Carl.” Lip offers, keeping it simple. 

 

It wasn’t nearly as simple as that though; wasn’t nearly as forgivable. Fiona’s gaze meets his for a moment before she hugs Debbie a little closer, “You two should go up to bed,” she murmurs. 

 

“Would he really kill’m, do you think?” Carl asks bluntly, his eyes on the ceiling now.

 

“Carl,” Fiona sighs, glances at Ian’s sleeping form for a moment, “It’s not - ”

 

“Yeah, he would,” Lip cuts her off, answers the question just as bluntly. 

 

“Lip,” Fiona chides. 

 

“What?” Lip arcs his eyebrows at her, “You think he wouldn’t?” 

 

“What’re we gonna do about it?” Carl asks before Fiona can respond, sitting up. 

 

“We aren’t going to do anything about it,” Fiona says. 

 

Debbie frowns, “He can’t get away with it.”

 

“We could kill him first,” Carl suggests. 

 

“We’re not killing anyone,” Fiona says quickly. 

 

Carl gives her a faintly outraged look, “Why not? He’d kill Ian.” 

 

“And we’re better human beings than that piece of shit Terry Milkovich,” Fiona spits out, eyes flashing a little. 

 

It makes her jaw clench when she thinks of it—a gun pointed at Ian; makes something fierce and vicious boil inside her. It’s not as though she wouldn’t like to kill the fucking asshole who’d put a gun in her little brother’s face, but there’s more at stake here. She had a better job now, benefits; Lip had graduated, got into MIT—they were still far from being okay, but they were getting there – in another year or two they might be there. Debbie might get a halfway decent shot at high school—friends and boys and after-school activities. 

 

They couldn’t afford enemies like the Milkoviches. 

 

“He doesn’t get away with it,” Debbie says, breaking the silence that had spread over the room; her voice low, serious, lined with the steel a little girl who seals child-abusers eyes shut with super glue and drowns bullies in public pools needs to have, “He hurt Ian. He _doesn’t_ get away with it.”

 

Fiona looks over at her, meeting her gaze, almost startled—because when had sweet little Debbie become this sharp-edged girl? 

 

Debbie holds her gaze, “You don’t _fuck_ with the Gallaghers,” she says fiercely, tossing Fiona’s words back at her, “Right?” She challenges. 

 

And Fiona’s throat tightens. “Right,” she says, voice cracking a little. 

 

There’s silence again after that, the words heavy in the room. It’s Carl who breaks it this time, voicing his opinion again, “I think we should kill him,” he says, lying back down. “It’s not like anybody’d be sorry or miss him.” 

 

“We don’t _kill_ people, Carl,” Fiona snaps, kicking him in the hip with her foot, “Stop saying that shit. Gallagher’s aren’t murderers.” 

 

Carl frowns a little, shifting away. “We gotta get rid of him,” he insists. 

 

“Yeah, I _know_ ,” Fiona huffs, “But we don’t have to kill him to get rid of him. Just get him thrown back in prison.” 

 

“Prison’s not really good enough,” Lip volunteers, holding a joint to his lips for a moment; his voice calm in contrast to hers, “He always gets out,” he says, exhaling. “Pretty sure his parole officer’s in his pocket by now.” 

 

“So we make it bigger, make sure he doesn’t get out,” Fiona looks at him, her eyes searching his face for a moment, “We can do that.” There’s more bravado in her words than she feels, but Debbie and Carl’s eyes on her face always helps her fake that; this time is no different. 

 

“Not without putting a target on all our backs,” Lip points out. The neighborhood had a quick, effective method of dealing with people that sold each other out. 

 

“You’re sayin’ we can’t think ourselves a way to work this out,” she challenges. _Fix this._ Because maybe they couldn’t fix their own lives, but this is Ian they’re talking about; their easy-going little brother with the smile you couldn’t resist smiling back at. 

 

“I didn’t say that,” Lip equivocates, his words careful, “It… wouldn’t be a quick thing. We’d gotta be meticulous—none of that last minute shit we pull to save the day. I’m talking back-up plans and contingencies, nothing to chance.” 

 

“Better if it’s not quick,” Fiona points out, “Less of a link to us.” 

 

“We can help,” Debbie offers, “Right, Carl?” 

 

“Sure,” the younger boy says eagerly, grinning abruptly, “Let’s put some Milkoviches away,” he cheers, pumping his fist in the air, “I know a _bunch_ of shit they sell to - ”

 

“Don’t,” Fiona reaches out, catches his fist in her hand, “This isn’t a joke. This wouldn’t be like our other cons…” she says seriously, her voice soft. “We do what we have to do to keep ourselves safe, nothing more. We still have to live in this neighborhood.” 

 

“We’re not rats.” Lip’s voice is low, a little rough, “We don’t snitch.” 

 

Carl rolls his eyes, looking disgruntled as he yanks his hand back from Fiona’s, “Yeah and we’re not murderers either, so what the fuck are we?” He growls out. 

 

“ _Smart,_ ” Lip retorts. And there’s a spark in way he says it, the way his gaze looks over at them, almost excited; a new challenge, higher stakes, and even with a payoff no one could ever know about, it gave him something to do. 

 

“Smart,” Carl echoes, a little skeptically.

 

But Debbie picks up on it. “Smart enough to trick him,” she says, nodding at Lip, her gaze going to Fiona, “Get him caught.” 

 

And it’s infectious, that spark, because the eyes that Carl and Debbie turn to her are just as bright as Lip’s and they make something buzz along her skin too. It reminds her abruptly of the Alibi and Frank, of plotting to frame Grammy and how there’d been something infectious about that too. 

 

“Smart enough to get him caught,” she confirms to Debbie, to Carl, glances at Lip who nods at her. And just like that, they’re agreed—they'd get Terry Milkovich, caught and back in prison, and they'd do it without incriminating themselves.

 

.tbc.


	6. Chapter 6

 

 

 

They don’t talk much after agreeing to it; it’s too late for logistics, they’re all too tired for it. 

 

Lip shifts Liam into Debbie’s waiting arms, smoothing fingers through the baby’s hair as the kid turns his face against Debbie’s shoulder; she carries him upstairs, ushering Carl up with her, telling him it’s time to get ready for bed, to brush his teeth, to be quiet so Liam wouldn’t wake up. 

 

Fiona watches them until they’re out of sight and then she gets up, goes over to unplug the christmas lights, turn the lamp on; when she turns back to Lip he’s crouched by Ian, trying to shake him awake gently. 

 

Ian doesn’t stir though and Fiona rubs at her face tiredly, murmurs, “Just let’m crash there.”

 

Between the two of them they stretch Ian out carefully, pillowing his head against cushions and the armrest and curling his legs on the sofa; Fiona gets a few blankets from upstairs while Lip gets his shoes off. She tucks the blankets around Ian like she hasn’t done in a long time, straightening slowly. 

 

“We'll talk about it in the morning,” she says softly to Lip without turning to face him. 

 

And Lip nods his head, lips pursed, quiet as he heads for the steps. Fiona follows him just as quietly a few moments later. 

 

II

 

Fiona checks on Ian twice that night. 

 

Her movements quiet and almost tentative in the dim living room, careful not to not make noise on the steps or in the hallway. 

 

She brushes her fingers through Ian’s hair, murmuring his name quietly until his eyelashes flutter, eyes opening slowly. _Okay?_ she whispers, rubbing her hand over his chest lightly and he responds, _Yeah_ with a hoarse voice and eyes already slipping shut again. 

 

She sits with him until his breathing evens out and then slips back upstairs to her room just as quietly and as carefully as she’d arrived.

 

 

II

 

 

Ian’s in his own bed when Lip gets out of the shower the next morning; asleep and turned towards the wall. He doesn’t bother him, the sleep’ll do him good—maybe realign his neurons, fix some of the dumbass. He jerks Carl outta bed though and the little boy groans, shoving at Lip. 

 

Lip presses hand against the kid’s scalp, pulling him in close and ducking his head to remind him quietly, “Chopping a tree today or what?” 

 

Carl stills, then nods flashing him a quick, bright smile before lunging for the shower as if someone was going to get to it first.

 

Fiona’s already in the kitchen by the time Lip gets downstairs. Her elbows on the counter, a coffee mug between both hands; she’s leaning over it with a pensive expression on her face, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on a spot on the floor.

 

It makes him fucking _angry_ , that look on her face; like they’re her problems, like everything is her problem, her fucking responsibility. He tenses reflexively at it, descends the steps with a stomp to his feet.

 

And she looks up when she hears him, straightening abruptly, that hard look she puts up on her face when she doesn't want anyone to comment on how sad she is descending, "You're up early." Her voice is sharp-edged, brittle, and he makes a beeline for coffee pot, needs it for a day like today promises to be.

 

He makes a noncommittal noise that confesses he hadn't slept much.

 

She’s quiet while he gets a mug, waits until he's taken a sip before saying, "We really doing this?"

 

"What?" He plays the ingenue, “Getting Debbie a tree? Yeah," he says dryly, “Carl’s in the shower and I’m gonna go over and drag Kev the fuck outta bed in a minute - see if we can get back by 1 or 2."

 

Her mouth tightens for a beat, "Don't be a shit, you know what I'm talking about. We seriously going to frame Terry Milkovich."

 

"Not actually framing if he's done the crime," Lip equivocates, taking another swallow of his coffee. “Which he’s done - for basically all the crimes.”

 

"Lip," she says lowly, dropping a palm flat against the counter, "If anyone finds out - "

 

"Part of the plan is to not get caught," he points out. 

 

"You think we can really do it?" There’s a thread of uncertainty in her voice, so faint he knows it’s only there because they’re alone in the kitchen; alone in the downstairs of the house.

 

"Yeah we can do it," he tells her with an easy confidence he feels down to his bones.

 

And Fiona arcs her brows skeptically, “Yeah? How’re you so sure?”

 

He shrugs, getting the bread out, going for the toaster, “Heavyweight champion never sees the knockout punch coming.”

 

She rolls her eyes, shifting so she can follow him with her gaze, “That’s not a plan.”

 

“It’s a strategy,” he points, popping bread into the toaster. “We almost did it once already—learned from that, gotta think bigger.” 

 

“You almost did it once already…?” Fiona echoes, “When the fuck was that?” 

 

“Time he wanted to blow Ian’s head off for Mandy,” Lip tilts his head a little, “Kinda a theme for him I guess.”

 

“And?” Fiona prompts. 

 

“Got caught. Learning experience,” he says with a twitch to his lips. 

 

Fiona watches him for a moment; the house is still a mess, dishes piled in the sink, food left out overnight, decorations and balloons strewn across the floors, and she’ll get started on all of that, but first, “We should leave Ian out of it this time.”

 

Lip turns around at that, mouth pressed together as he gives a short shake of his head, “Don’t see how that’s a good idea.”

 

“Don’t see how tell’m is.”

 

They stare at each other for a second until the toast springs up and Lip looks away, “He’ll figure it out.” He adds. 

 

“He’s too close to this and it’s fucked him up enough.”

 

Lip’s quiet, gets the peanut butter out and smears some over the pieces of bread, as he considers that.“Your problem when it blows up,” he says finally, letting it go.

 

“I’ll take care of it.” And by _it_ , they both know they mean Ian; when Ian found out and shouted at them and tried to pull away from them again.

 

He nods, plops a piece of toast with peanut butter on it in front of her a few minutes later.

 

She pokes at it with a fingertip, her gaze on it when she asks, “You think he’s gonna be okay?”

 

Lip takes a big bite out of his own piece of toast, says, “Probably not,” around the mouthful.

 

Fiona nods slowly, breaking off a corner of the bread, fiddling with it, “And you?” She prompts. _Are you okay?_

 

He takes another bite, like he’s considering it when he doesn’t really have to, when he knows exactly what the answer is, “Not really.”

 

She glances up at him then, half a smile ghosting her lips, “Me too,” she murmurs.

 

He gives her a _no shit_ look, returning that same almost smile before he turns and puts another few slices into the toaster, puts the bag back in the refrigerator when he’s finished. They’re fucked; all three of them, but maybe they could manage to save three out of six—wouldn’t be a bad deal.

 

She watches him wordlessly, picking at the slice of toast absently; the house is so quiet, the street outside too. It was barely seven in the morning on Christmas Eve, people were off to a slow start.

 

He turns back to the counter, doesn’t look at her when shoves the rest of the toast in his mouth, follows it with a swallow of coffee, says, “I need $500 to reserve a spot at MIT.”

 

It makes her straighten a little, startling; her eyes sharpening on his face, “I have it,” she says immediately.

 

“Didn’t say I wanted it,” he points out, taking his mug over to the sink, leaving it with the rest of the dirty dishes, “Said it’s what I’d need.”

 

“Yeah,” she eats the corner toast between her fingers, “Okay. Well. I’m saying I have it. If… you want it.”

 

Lip doesn’t say a word to that, his head tilting back to glance at the ceiling where they can hear steps on the floorboards now. She does the same, eyes on the ceiling, murmuring, “Debbie,” because Carl’s footsteps are always heavier, like he stomps everywhere even when he’s not try to.

 

Lip stares for another beat, does look at her then, “Twenty-three hour train ride.”

 

“Fourteen hour drive,” she responds immediately, her gaze going to his; she’d looked up the travel times too.

 

He gives a small humorless laugh, “Right.” Of course she’d looked into that already. He grabs another piece of toast, “See you later - ”

 

“Lip - ”

 

“Busy day, save the speech for a slow one,” he calls over his shoulder, already at the door. “Send Carl over Vee and Kev’s when he’s ready.”

 

And Fiona’s easy like that these days, tired; she just sighs and says, “Bye - ” as he shuts the door behind himself.

 

 

II

 

 

Debbie comes down forty minutes later while Fiona’s washing the dishes; Carl had been down and gone already. 

 

And Debbie has the all the same excitement and energy he’d had over getting to go chop down a tree—a list of things to do in her head and a spark in her eyes.

 

Fiona wishes she could see that in them both every day. 

 

Debbie digs into their daycare supplies, setting things on the kitchen table as she tells Fiona about all the recipes she was going to work on with Shelia— _sugar cookies_ and _dehydrated apples_ and _rice krispie balls_. The excitement’s contagious and Fiona finds herself smiling easily too, “That’s real nice, Debs.” 

 

“We’re gonna do’m at her house since she had a better kitchen,” Debbie says lightly, packing a cloth shopping bag with things from their cupboard, “You wanna come help?”

 

“Gotta get the living room ready,” Fiona says, watching her for a moment, “And work on this big dinner we’re gonna have. Vee’s coming over in awhile too.” 

 

Debbie nods as she puts her sweater on, her jacket over it, it’s what she’d expected Fiona to say.

 

“Hey, Debbie,” Fiona murmurs after a while, watching the girl pack away the flour and the powdered sugar, “About yesterday…” 

 

“Yeah,” Debbie whirls on her at that, startling Fiona, “About that, so what are we going to do?” She asks, eyes on Fiona’s face. 

 

And Fiona takes a breath, “I think we got ahead of ourselves,” she says calmly; because whatever they do, they shouldn’t have gotten Debbie and Carl involved in it. 

 

Debbie rolls her eyes though, “Come on Fiona. We didn’t even plan anything.” 

 

“I know, but the whole thing is - ”

 

“Don’t do this, don’t pretend like you aren’t going to do anything when you are,” Debbie accuses, her voice low all of sudden, hoarse.

 

“That’s not what I’m doing - ”

 

“I know you and Lip are gonna do something.” She _knows_ it, because they protect them.

 

Fiona keeps her eyes on the plate she’s scrubbing when she says, “We haven’t really talked about it… doing something might make things worse.” 

 

“You’re gonna do something,” Debbie insists, frowning, “And you’re trying to keep me out of loop.” 

 

“That’ s not - ”

 

“Yes it is, that’s what you’re doing, but he’s our brother too,” she says fiercely, her voice serious; sometimes there’s a part of her that’s scared, because Ian’s their half-brother and they all know it and maybe that makes it a little easier for him to leave them, for them to lose him. “Ian’s our brother,” she says it again, will always say it, “Mine and Carl’s; and this is what we do, isn’t it? Look out for each other?”

 

And Fiona can’t argue that, not really. “Deb’s that’s what - ” she dunks the plate under the running water, taking a deep breath, “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do, okay? I know you think I’m treating you like a baby, but I’m not. I just want to… to look out for you and this - ”

 

“But you don’t have to,” Debbie interrupts again, “This isn’t my problem. It’s Ian’s problem. And we have to take care of it for him.” 

 

She says it so simply, so matter-a-fact—it fills Fiona with equal parts pride and trepidation. 

 

“Before he runs away again,” Debbie continues, her soft voice now tinged with uncertainty she can’t quite hide.

 

And Fiona blinks, turning her head to look at her little sister; faintly surprised to realize Debbie had put that together.

 

“Because he wasn’t at an ROTC thing, was he?” Debbie murmurs.

 

Fiona studies her for a moment. Her little sister—almost thirteen. “No… no he wasn’t,” she admits, her voice as serious as Debbie’s.

 

“So don’t cut me out of it. Or even Carl. We can handle it. We’re not babies anymore.” She pauses, “Well, I’m not. He’s still a boy.” 

 

Fiona smiles slightly, studying her sister’s face carefully; so matter-a-fact, like beatings and framing people were an everyday occurrence. “I guess not,” she murmurs. Because maybe they kind of were in their family. 

 

“So?” Debbie presses, “What are we doing?” 

 

Fiona clears her throat a little, shaking her head, “Lip and I haven’t really had a chance to talk about it yet…” she says, “Honestly.” 

 

“You’ll tell me though?” Debbie insists. 

 

And Fiona takes a breath, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll tell you,” she promises, “You’ll be the first person I tell.” 

 

Debbie holds her gaze for a moment and then says, “Okay,” quietly, opening a drawer now and digging around for utensils. Fiona watches her for a moment of her own before she turns back to the dishes. 

 

“It’s because of Mickey Milkovich isn’t? Ian likes him.” 

 

“What?” Fiona turns her head sharply, but Debbie’s head is still bent over the drawer, taking things out and putting them on the counter, clearly looking for something.

 

“Last time Terry Milkovich wanted to hurt Ian it was because of Mandy. But…” the little girl says, shrugging, “It can’t be about Mandy this time… and Mickey was there, so,” she glances Fiona, “Is it about Mickey?” 

 

Fiona turns away from the sink, rubbing her wet hands against her jeans, “Deb, listen. You can’t go around saying that, anything _like_ that, okay?” 

 

“So it is,” Debbie nods, finding the wooden spoons and putting them in the sack. 

 

Fiona shrugs a little, “I haven’t talked to Ian about it,” she says, which is the truth. 

 

Debbie puts the rest of the utensils back in the drawer. “That’s okay. I know it is. And I won’t talk to anybody else about it,” she says, “Not even Shelia.” 

 

Fiona nods a little, “Alright,” she murmurs, then asks, “How… do you know?” 

 

“I pay attention,” she glances at Fiona again, “Since nobody tells me anything because I’m just a kid.” 

 

Fiona rubs at her face then, frustrated all of a sudden, “Yeah well you keep acting like one,” she says angrily, tired of this argument they keep having. 

 

Debbie slams the drawer shut, lifting the sack over shoulder, “Whatever, Fiona,” she huffs, turning to leave the kitchen. 

 

“Be back by three,” she tells the younger girl. 

 

“I’ll be back when I’m finished,” Debbie retorts. 

 

“By three, Debbie!” Fiona shouts. 

 

And the front door slamming shut is her response.

 

 

II

 

 

Debbie’s marching down the street, arms at her sides, the bag over her shoulder, and her eyes straight ahead on her way to Shelia’s. 

 

There’s noise all around her. There always is—people shouting, dogs barking, cars honking, sirens going off, the L a distant roaring that never really went away—but she doesn’t really hear any of it right now. 

 

She’s just so _mad_. Because Fiona forgets. She _forgets_ that she’s not the only one that can take of their family; forgets that _Debbie_ was the one that found out Steve was really Jimmy, that she’d told Fiona; that she’s the one that remembered they had to dig up Aunt Ginger before the city did; and she’s the one that had saved their house when no one else could figure out what to do.

 

She could take care of this family too.

 

That thought’s swirling in her head when she veers towards the Milkovich house abruptly, not giving herself a lot of time to think it over. The metal’s cold against her hands when she pushes the wire gate open, stomps up the cement steps. 

 

She takes a very deep breath before she knocks on their front door. She has to knock more than twice—and then Mandy is swinging the door open with a scowl on her face. “What the fu - Debbie?” she cuts herself off, but the scowl doesn’t fade, “What do ya want?” She asks, shivering a little in just leggings and a t-shirt. 

 

“Can I come in?” Debbie asks, tilting her chin up a little. 

 

“You’re coming over here too goddamn much,” Mandy grumbles, but steps aside anyway, letting the little girl in. It’s cold out and they both know that Terry isn’t home. “What do you want?” She asks again.

 

“You’re coming today right?” Debbie asks, standing in the hall, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She glances around, looking for Mickey Milkovich too. 

 

Mandy lifts her eyebrows, “You know me and your brother aren’t a thing anymore right?” 

 

Debbie nods, bringing her gaze back to Mandy’s face, “But you’re still my friend, right?” It’s kind of weird to say out loud, but it’s the truth—they turned into sort-of-friends somewhere along the line and Debbie liked it. 

 

It makes Mandy feel just as weird to hear it; _friends_ with a 12 year old? She glares at the girl a little harder. 

 

“Hey, who was at the do - ” Mickey cuts himself off, stopping in the doorway to stare at Debbie. In sweats and a t-shirt, he glowers at her more darkly than Mandy had, “What the fuck - ”

 

“Mick - ” Mandy shoots him a warning glare; even if she wasn’t one-hundred-percent on board with this _friends_ thing, the kid was still _somebody_ to her.

 

“Come around five,” Debbie says keeping her voice light, like they weren’t both frowning at her now. Mickey’s got bruises like shadows on his face, same way Ian does, but maybe not as many; his t-shirt looks too big and his hair is sticking up at parts like he just woke up—which maybe he just had. Debbie continues, “We’re doing the tree with the decorations and then dinner and stuff.” She looks between them for a beat and then moves down the hall curiously. 

 

“Debbie...” Mandy moves after her, “If you want to borrow something - ”

 

“Is anyone else home?” She asks. 

 

Mickey lifts his eyebrows, “Okay what the fuck is up with this kid? This ain’t your house - ”

 

“Where’s your wife?” She asks Mickey abruptly, peering through the crack of an-almost-shut door, “Is she here?” 

 

Mandy reaches out then, latching on to Debbie’s arm, “She’s sleeping. She works nights...” she answers for Mickey, tugging the little girl back towards the living room. 

 

“Not that that’s any of your fuckin’ business,” Mickey snaps at her. 

 

“Boy’s’re on a run, Mickey’s headin’ to work,” Mandy continues, her voice making up for the bite in Mickey’s, “And _you_ should go home.”

 

“I’m not going home. I have things to do,” Debbie explains, then adds, “Will you come? Later?” 

 

“Why the fuck would she do that?” Mickey spits. “She’s not fucking your brother anymore. Either of’m. So she can finally detox from your Gallagher bullshit.”

 

His voice is sharp and Mandy shoots him another dark look, “Mickey - ”

 

“My family is not bullshit,” Debbie turns on him, “And it’s not about that, it’s about being with people that mean something to you so you can enjoy the party. And I meant both of you. _Because_ ,” she continues without pausing, “It’s not like you’re doing anything here anyway.”

 

Mickey stares at her for a beat and then turns his glare to Mandy, “Fuck did this kid start comin’ over here like we rolled out the fuckin’ welcome mat, or some shit - ” he points at Mandy, “This is your fault. Get rid of her.” 

 

He turns back towards the kitchen then, leaving them in the hall without another word. 

 

“There’s gonna be lasagna,” Debbie calls out to him, “And cookies... and a tree...” she continues, her voice trailing off when he doesn’t come back. 

 

Mandy drops an arm around Debbie’s shoulder’s, leading her towards the front door. Outside on the porch, in the cold, Mandy keeps her voice low when she asks again, “What are you doing here?”

 

And Debbie blows out a little breath, shaking her head, says, “I don’t know... ” honestly, shrugging. 

 

The older girl keeps looking at her and Debbie fidgets, shuffling her feet. “I want to help,” she blurts out, not specifying; keeping her gaze fixed on a spot beyond Mandy. 

 

And Mandy bristles at that, tensing. Because these fucking Gallagher’s and their retarded _helping_ faces. “Get outta here, Debbie,” she says and her voice is sharper than it usually is when she talks to the little girl, “Go home or wherever you’re goin’ and don’t come back here to _help_. We don’t need it.” 

 

Debbie’s gaze shifts to Mandy’s face quickly, “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, “Not you- not help _you_...” she shakes her head. 

 

She doesn’t say Ian’s name, doesn’t have to. 

 

Mandy presses her lips together, “You can’t help some things; you’re just gonna fuck it more if you try.” 

 

“But you can’t just not try,” Debbie insists. “Not when it’s your family. That’s what family does.” 

 

It’s such a ridiculous thing to spout at Mandy Milkovich though and they both realize it a second after it’s out of Debbie’s mouth. The realization flickers over Debbie’s face, the same way it shutters Mandy’s—and Debbie looks away, embarrassed. Because it’s only what some families do; not all. 

 

“It’s cold to be standin’ here,” Mandy says, her voice softer now, “Get goin.” 

 

Debbie catches the corner of her lip between her teeth, nodding a little, staring at the ground. “Yeah, okay.” 

 

Mandy hesitates then touches the girl’s arm lightly, dropping her hand immediately, wrapping her arms around herself, “I’ll see you around.” 

 

Debbie glances up at her, nodding again, giving her a small smile. “Yeah, see you...” 

 

Mandy returns the little smile, nodding slightly too. 

 

And Debbie turns around, gets down the steps and past the gate before she stops, looking over at Mandy again who’s still standing on the porch. “Merry Christmas.” She waves, waits for Mandy to wave back, for her to say _Merry Christmas_ back, before she turns back down the street. 

 

It’s not what all families did, but it’s what they did; and she’d do it somehow too.

 

 

II

 

 

Ian is in the kitchen when Fiona comes down the steps with a full laundry basket. He’s sitting at the table, a few pairs of scissors and stacks of green and red construction paper in front of him; and she pauses on the bottom step, looking at him. 

 

She only has vague memories, faint images, of the time before Lip. Mostly impressions of being on her own, of there not being anyone at her side where there’s supposed to be someone, like a dream where she’d wander around in the fog expecting someone to turn up just around the next corner.

 

And then he does. Lip is next to her in all her real memories, every single one that’s solid enough she can hear it, could breathe it in—he’s there just behind her or right at her side; and she doesn’t remember exactly when that happened, just that he was there and that it felt like he’d always been there.

 

But she remembers Ian.

 

She remembers the tiny, soft bundle her mother had put on her lap. _Your baby brother, sweetheart_ and Ian’s little hands reaching for her face. She remembers him standing up in his crib and jumping up and down, remembers him crawling up to her with a wide, toothless smile , remembers him toddling after Lip with outstretched arms trying to catch up—and she remembers the first time he’d run to her instead of their Mother. She remembers his little arms wrapped tight around her, his face pressed into her shirt; and she remembers how that had felt—like he was hers to take of.

 

And she had, because Lip made her a sister, but it was Ian that had made her a _big_ sister, it was Ian that she’d put to bed and soothe tears for even while Lip stood right next to her, watching her do it. Somewhere though, somewhere along the way with so many others to do that job—to make her a big sister, so many others to put to bed and soothe and check on, she’d let go of Ian, let him drift.

 

It made her feel a queasy, how much had happened that she didn’t know about; how much she could still not know. She takes a breath, approaching him, “Hey, what’s this? You should rest up today.”

 

He glances up at her, “I’m fine,” he says, “I’ve been beat-up before, it’s not that big a deal.”

 

She tries not to wince, but the flicker of regret that flashes over his face tells her she doesn’t quite manage it. “You take something then, meds?” She presses on, “Kev left you some right?”

 

He nods, “Yeah.”

 

“You could still get some more sleep, it’s barely eleven.”

 

Ian turns his head to look over at her, sighing, “I’m fine. Enough with the babying.”

 

“Babied you for like one second yesterday,” Fiona points out, smiling at him slightly.

 

And his gaze meets hers for beat before he goes back to work. “Debbie left me instructions,” he tells her instead of responding, his voice softening though, “I get to cut these into strips and when she gets back we’ll make chains. There was a note on the door.”

 

“Ah,” Fiona murmurs, peering over his shoulder at what he’s doing, “For the tree,” she nods, turning towards the washer then. “She packed up a bunch supplies this morning to take to Shelia’s—making edible decorations…” She doesn’t mention the rest of her conversation with their little sister though, “She’s going all out for this.” 

 

Fiona pauses then though, halfway to the washer, looking over at Ian again. His head is still bowed over the construction paper and with Debbie at Shelia’s, Carl and Lip getting the tree, and Liam down for a nap, this might the only time she gets alone with him.

 

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, moving over to the washer more slowly, “She’s excited about it...” she notes, still talking about Debbie.

 

“It’s been a couple years since we had one,” Ian points out.

 

Fiona nods a little, sets the laundry basket down next to the washer.

 

“It was good - ” he adds, still not looking at her, “Of you. Working that out for her.”

 

“It’ll be nice...” she murmurs back, “For all of us.” It’s been a long time since she’s known how to talk to Ian and they can both feel that, feel it between them, a stilted sort of silence.

 

She bends down, loading the washer more carefully than usual, more slowly. “Ian - ” she starts, still crouched by the washer, looking over at him.

 

“I’m seriously fine, Fiona,” he says before she can continue, “Yeah, I look like shit, but throat’s better and I’m not puking or seeing spots, so relax.” He turns his head to look into her face, “I’m fine.”

 

And she licks her lips a little, “Are you?” She asks softly, her tone as careful as her movements, just as slow; because nobody was ever _fine_ when they lost someone they cared about—she would know.

 

His gaze shutters like a switch is flipped, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“I’m worried about you, I - ”

 

“I’m not talking about.”

 

“Okay,” she says quietly, pushing up to her feet, “Okay,” she repeats, walking over to him, “Then just- I’m going to talk then... and you can just listen.”

 

He grits his teeth, “It’s not - ”

 

Her fingers curl around the back of the chair next to his, “I’m sorry - ”

 

But he doesn’t let her finish, “You have nothing to be - ”

 

“That I missed it.” She interrupts him.

 

“Fiona - ” His voice is hard now, face set stubbornly, “I’m not going to talk about this.”

 

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning a hand down on to the table, “Let me say this to you, please, okay?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just presses on, “I’m sorry I missed this huge part of your life, I’m sorry. I don’t know where my head’s been at lately and it - ”

 

“Living your own life,” he snaps at her, strangely angry, “You’re allowed. I don’t blame you.” But maybe there’s a tiny corner of himself that does, a spot that wonders why she notices Lip and Debbie and Carl but not him.

 

“Ian,” she says seriously, lowly, “It’s not okay. If I miss one of Carl’s games or one of Debbie’s matches, that I’m allowed. This,” she shakes her head a little, “I’m not allowed. None of us are allowed. Our family, its- it’s all we’ve got. We can’t miss this kinda thing- when one of us is hurting; and I - ”

 

“I didn’t _want_ you to know. I kept it from you.” He says, fidgeting in his seat, “I’m allowed to live my own life too.”

 

“Yeah, I know - ”

 

“Then stop trying to make everything about you,” he retorts gruffly, “It’s got _nothing_ to do with you.”

 

And she bristles at that, snapping, “Hey,” and yanking the chair back so she can sit down, plants her elbows on the table and leans towards him, “Bull _shit._ Somebody’s got a problem with you, they got a problem with me,” she says fiercely.

 

“Fio - ”

 

But she’s not finished; the bite in her voice fading, leaving just fierce softness when she continues, “And somebody’s important to you, they’re important to me. You _know_ that, right? You know that’s how this works? You can tell me anything because what’s important to you is important to me.”

 

Ian shakes his head a little, his throat tightening; he drops his gaze from her face. He’d wondered vaguely yesterday how much she and Debbie and Carl had actually put together—had realized belatedly this morning that Fiona had _known_ when she’d come upstairs to ask about the gun; she’d already known it was about Mickey. “Lip tell you?”

 

“Nope. Figured it out... day we figured out where you went,” she murmurs; doesn’t mention that Debbie has too.

 

He nods very slightly, still staring at the table. Fiona’s quiet too, letting the silence stretch for as long as he needs it too.

 

“It just happened,” he says finally, like she’d asked him a question about it. And maybe she had, maybe that’s what the silence had sounded like to him, like _why him_ and _what do see in him_ and _what makes him so special_.

 

She bites the corner of her lip a little again, then picks up one of the scissors and starts cutting construction paper; focuses her eyes on that when she says, “Usually just does.” Because she knows those questions don’t always have answers you can put into just words. 

 

And Ian blinks, watching her a little suspiciously, “Guess so.” She nods, cutting a straight line of red construction paper, then another and another, until Ian blows out a breath, “What, Fiona? Just say it or ask it or whatever...” he grumbles.

 

“I wanted you to know that I’m sorry and that I love you and that if you want to tell me about it, about whatever, that you can,” she glances at him, “And you know that now, right?”

 

He looks away from her then, something guilty twisting in his gut, “I should have told you I was leaving, I know that. I just... it - ” he shrugs, “I don’t know. I couldn’t-” he stops. There were too many things in his head to get out into words. 

 

She nudges the pair of scissors at him, the ones he’d lowered while they talked. 

 

“You have to finish high school, Ian,” she says quietly, working on another sheet of red paper, “After that- after that you can stop letting things just happen to you, you can do something,” she murmurs, going back to what he’d told her on the ride home, “But you have to graduate.”

 

Ian looks at her profile for a moment, the strands of dark hair falling around her face, and he picks up the scissors, takes a green sheet of paper, “You don’t think that’s a lie...?” He asks her mildly, “That graduating makes a difference, you don’t think that’s a lie?” Because he thought it was; it wouldn’t make a difference, not to someone like him, not really.

 

“It’s not a lie. It’ll make a difference.”

 

Her voice is soft, eyes on the paper in front of her, and he knows she does this all time; lies to them, to herself, tries to make things so out of sheer willpower—and sometimes it’s all they have, Fiona’s words and Fiona’s will, but he still calls her on it. “Sure about that?”

 

And she blows out a breath, gives him one of those ridiculously wide smiles she has that are three quarters sincere and one part blatant lie, “Sure as I am about every-fuckin-thing.”

 

It surprises a laugh out of him, his hands stilling; and then he shakes his head, “God Fiona - ” he looks at her, “How do you...” he lets the question taper off.

 

She answers though, her smile turning more genuine, softer, sadder, “You were sitting here prepping ornaments—you know how,” she shrugs; each other—the _how do you keep going_ and _how you keep trying_ is in each other.

 

He doesn’t say anything to that; dropping his gaze to the table. They work quietly together for a while and when the washer cycle ends and she gets up, she touches a hand to his shoulder, offers him a little smile.

 

He stays where he is, listens to the sound of her moving everything into the dryer, has almost finished cutting the entire stack of green paper by now. 

 

“I wasn't ready for it to be over.” 

 

He surprises himself a little by saying it to her, by saying it out loud.

 

She looks over at him, pausing with a damp sweater in her hands, “Hardest part,” she murmurs after a moment, tossing the sweater into the dryer.

 

They just look at each other for a moment and then Ian blows out a little breath, nodding his slightly, looking back at the table. 

 

“I get it,” Fiona murmurs, tossing one of Carl’s shirts into the dryer, “I know you don’t want to talk about it. But... I get it. If you change your mind.” 

 

And Ian doesn’t say anything, but he believes her. 

 

Liam calls to them then, his voice coming down from up the stairs and through the baby monitor, sing-songing, _Out, me, out_ in his baby voice.

 

Fiona rubs at her face, smiling a little to herself at the sound of Liam’s voice, pushing to her feet. 

 

Ian holds a hand up, “I got him,” he says softly, “Need a break,” he motions to the table.

 

She nods, “Bring’m down, would ya,” she says, “He’s probably hungry.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” he nods, moving towards the steps. He pauses, one foot on the bottom step, “Hey, Fiona - ”

 

She’s finishing with the clothes, tossing dryer sheets in, “Hm?”

 

“Thanks... you know— for - ” he shrugs, glancing at her quickly for a moment before heading upstairs.

 

She turns towards him in time to see him disappear up the steps and blows out a little sigh, it wasn't a lot and he wasn't okay, but maybe it was a step in the right direction. 

 

 

II

 

.tbc.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!! :) The actual last chapter should be up shortly. Finals got in the way and somehow that translated to more scenes. Thank you for reading and to everyone's that's left kudos/reviews. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Lip crashes into the kitchen on a laugh, with the front of a bound tree under one arm, a bottle of whiskey in his free hand, and a cigarette between his lips. There’s snow in his hair and he’s tracking slush in with his boots.

 

“Lip!” Fiona scolds right away, but she’s grinning too, a laugh in her voice. Vee’s with her and they’ve glasses of vodka with orange juice and even though it’s past three and Debbie’s not back yet, she’s in a good mood.

 

Kev’s at the other end of the tree, grinning too, and covered in as many snowflakes. “Fuck, it’s cold!” He shouts, shaking his hair out, sending clumps of snow all over the kitchen.

 

The back door slams back against he wall as Carl bounds in after them. “I held the chainsaw!” He announces gleefully.

 

There’s a bandage on Carl’s head though, bloodied and lopsided, and Fiona gasps a little, huffing, _Lip_ when she sees it, wiping her hands on a rag and moving towards Carl, “Tell me this wasn’t with the saw...” she demands.

 

Lip drops his end of the tree in the doorway to the living room, whirling around to point at Kev, “Kev’s fault!” He laughs, bringing the bottle up to take a drink.

 

“Mine?!” Kev drops his end of the tree too, swiping the bottle from Lip’s hand.

 

Lip nods, amused as he pats his jacket for a pack of cigarette’s, “Told you to watch him while I got the truck...”

 

“And I _did_ ,” Kev tells him. Veronica’s wrapping arms around him then, hand curling around the whiskey bottle, lowering it so she can kiss his mouth instead, “Did, baby,” he tells her.

 

“Watched’m fall out of the tree,” Lip laughs.

 

“You fell out of a tree?” Fiona says sharply, eyes on Carl. “What were you doing _up_ a tree, Carl?”

 

He shrugs, grinning too. “I dunno.” He grabs Fiona’s arm, “But I used the chainsaw! I sawed on the tree! For like two minutes. It took like _five_ to you know, chop the thing down...”

 

She rolls her eyes, but her hands are soft on Carl’s shoulders as she guides him to the downstairs bathroom, letting him talk about their day as she tugs on the bandage at his head. He winces a tiny bit as he talks, pulling back, and frowning. She shushes him, turning the faucet on and running the water. “Let me see it... Vee!” She shouts after a beat, “Come look at this...”

 

Veronica pulls away from Kev long enough to check on Carl—determines that it doesn’t need stitches and that he _probably_ doesn’t have a concussion, but _stop falling your head boy_ and Fiona sighs, taking a long swallow of her drink. “He likes bouncing on it or something."

 

Carl grins at her, slips away from them to help Lip and Kev set up the tree.

 

Next time she walks past him, Fiona swats Kev hard on the back of the head; does the same to Lip a beat later.

 

They both squawk at her and Veronica laughs, back at the counter getting the rolls ready to bake.

 

“Can you not injure the working men here?” Kev demands, motioning to where he and Lip are manhandling the tree into the center of the living room, moving furniture around to make room.

 

Fiona had cleaned up the living room from the party, set out extension cords and the tree stand, and moved the lights and streamers Debbie had set out to a safe distance where they wouldn’t be crushed in the activity.

 

“Where’s Ian?” Lip calls, cutting the netting off of the tree carefully.

 

“Went to get batteries for the camera,” Fiona tells him, looking on from the doorway. She leans against the doorjamb, a little smile hovering over her lips, “And we needed some more food,” she adds, watching them work, “Carl, watch the branches and your head- took Liam with’m.”

 

Lip glances at her, arcs an eyebrow slightly in a question and Fiona shrugs, explains, “He wanted to go out.”

 

“Boy better not forget the salsa, what kinda house has chips but not salsa,” Veronica rolls her eyes at them.

 

And Fiona turns a grin at her, laughing a little, shifting back towards the kitchen to get her drink.

 

It’s an easy half hour or so, her and Vee drinking in the kitchen and Lip and Kev fucking shit up in the living room (there’s a crash every so often, Carl’s bright laugh that can only mean broken shit), but it’s easy to ignore when the house is warm and bright with everyone’s good mood.

 

Debbie walks in with snow on her coat, Shelia in tow, the two of them carrying bags and bags of edible decorations. Fiona catches her eye— _not okay_ , but the younger girl tilts her chin up and roundly ignores her, setting everything down with a flurry in the kitchen and then rushing out towards Lip.

 

“It’s huge!” She beams, launching herself at him, arms going around his waist in a hug. Shelia stands in the doorway, hands wringing together as she smiles too, “It is, it is... very grand.”

 

“Biggest one we could haul,” Lip tells Debbie, voice almost proud.

 

“Yeah and _I_ did the hauling,” Kev boasts. “Let’s not kid ourselves here. I’m the brawn of this outfit.”

 

“Obviously,” Lip rolls his eyes.

 

“I chopped it down,” Carl tells Debbie.

 

“I can tell,” Debbie grins, flicking her finger lightly against the cut on his head.

 

“At least he’s still got all his limbs,” Lip says dryly.

 

Debbie asks after Ian, circling the tree curiously, while Carl makes his way into the kitchen where he grabs a few of cookies before Shelia shoos him away.

 

It’s chaotic and loud, louder still when Vee gets the music on as they stand the tree up in the living room. The lights have to be strung and Debbie’s insisting they wait for Ian and Liam before working on the paper chains while Carl’s got Shelia in the kitchen, telling her about how he _almost split his head wide open_ —she’s horrified and intrigued, the perfect audience.

 

Fiona smiles to herself as she layers the lasagna—it’s the kind of mayhem that makes everything else worth it.

 

 

II

 

 

It’s snowing when Ian leaves the convenience store (purposefully, not the Kash and Grab); it’s cold and starting to get dark, the sidewalk’s full of people getting out of work and heading home for the day, looking forward to Christmas celebrations and a day off tomorrow, their feet leaving prints on the fresh snow that’s falling.

 

Liam’s still babbling happily like he’d been in the store, tilting back in Ian’s arms now and pointing up at the sky.

 

“It’s snowing,” he tells the baby, jostling him a little. “Snow.”

 

“Snow!” Liam echoes.

 

“Can you catch it?” He asks the little boy, “Catch it on your tongue?” He tells him, tilting his head back a little and opening his mouth, catching a few on his own tongue to show his brother, “Can you do it?”

 

“I do,” Liam nods, “I do it,” he says, leaning his head back against Ian’s shoulder.

 

Ian’s caught up in it, in watching Liam catch the snowflakes, and how delighted he is with it, that he doesn’t notice there’s someone stopped on the sidewalk a few feet away, looking at them.

 

Not until Liam points at him, “Catch?” He babbles playfully and Ian turns his smile in that direction.

 

He goes still then, eyes on Mickey’s face; registering immediately that Mickey had stopped. He could have kept moving, could have ignored him, and Ian wouldn’t have known; but Mickey had stopped.

 

So Ian stops too, bouncing Liam lightly and looking at Mickey intently for a moment before he says, “Small neighborhood,” his voice low, dry. Because maybe they were both avoiding walking by the Kash and Grab.

 

“You’d think that.” Mickey returns. He doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t move away either.

 

And Ian swallows hard, “You uh - ” he clears his throat, “You getting outta work?” It’s stupid. _Stupid_ to ask that; to stand here holding his kid brother and talking to Mickey in the falling snow like everything between them isn’t shit; like they weren’t both wearing the marks of the last time they talked.

 

Mickey answers though. “Electrical repairs—works bullshit, but it’s a paycheck.”

 

Ian nods a little and Liam babbles _snow_ into the silence between them. There’s a lady with shopping bags that moves around them, shooting Ian a dark look for being in her way, and he takes a step forward, closer to Mickey.

 

“Listen,” he murmurs, his gaze going to Mickey’s again, shifting his hold on Liam so the boy is settled against his side, “Yesterday. With your Dad.”

 

But he stops there when Mickey’s eyes narrow, his eyebrows drawing together, “You stay the fuck outta my house and it won’t be a problem.” Mickey says the words harshly, like he’s already arguing about it.

 

And Ian presses his lips together, bitterness creeping up inside him despite how many times he’s told himself not to care. “That’s your solution then? Stay away.”

 

“You’re the one that left, think it’d be right up your fucking alley.”

 

There’s a lilt to Mickey’s voice that makes him sounds almost angry about it and Ian latches on to that, pokes at it. “I’m back now,” he says, his voice purposefully mild, “And Mandy’s my best friend. I care about her, it’s not fair if I have to avoid her house.” He says it as though he frequented the Milkovich house a lot, but that’s not the point—

 

“ _Fair?_ ” Mickey echoes, tone of voice shifting, darkening.

 

— and that’s why Ian uses the word, to see it stick in Mickey’s eyes. Something vicious in him wanting to see if _hurt_ Mickey at all - if it hurt him the way it was hurting him, the _unfairness_ of all this; and he glares at Mickey, eyes hot, Liam heavy in his arms.

 

“That what you’re lookin’ for?” Mickey asks him sharply, “Fuckin’ world you livin’ in, Gallagher?”

 

“You tell me. You’re the one that’s got everything all figured out, right?” Ian retorts, his voice still clinging to light, still trying for mild.

 

It’s not fooling either of them though. They both know there’s nothing mild between them. It all burns ice cold or flaming hot—but burns just the same.

 

“You wanna know what I got figured out?” Mickey takes a step towards him then, “I got figured out you’re a fucking shit-for-brains asshole. Acting like I’m the problem here when you’re the one trying to get us both dead and put in the ground.”

 

“Do you hear yourself? We’re not doing anything _wrong_ , we - ”

 

“We ain’t doing anything _at all_ ,” Mickey snaps at him.

 

And Ian rears back a little, stung, coming back to himself abruptly, almost shivering in the cold. “I know that,” he breathes, Liam’s curls brushing his cheek as the boy leans his head down, “I got that.”

 

Except not really. Because he’d stopped too; and it wasn’t just Mickey he was poking at when he brought this up. It was something; they were still doing something.

 

Mickey presses his lips together, his gaze flickering to the ground; “You fuck married assholes; and that’s all I got for you.”

 

He’s making it that simple. That black and white. And Ian wants to put his fist through a wall, wants to shout that he doesn’t want _just_ that, wants to fucking shake Mickey until he stops or starts or tries or gives in or up or— _something._

 

It’s all a knot inside him, tangled and angry, “You know that’s - ” he starts then stops, his voice tight, shifting on his feet, Liam mumbling softly, distractedly, against his shoulder. He takes a step towards Mickey, impulsively, blindly, because _something_ , “You _know_ ,” he says thickly.

 

Mickey puts a hand out though, hard against Ian’s other shoulder, keeping him away. “I _know_ you’re getting the fuck outta here when you’re eighteen, right? That’s the new plan.”

 

And Ian’s jaw clenches so hard, his teeth ache. His breath sticks in his throat, his eyes burning on Mickey’s face, because that was the plan; and Mickey’s not going to chase after him like a little bitch ( _Don’t_ ); he’s not going to finish that sentence ( _just_ ). “Why not?” He says lowly, the words scraping against throat, sounding rough even to his own ears.

 

The fingers on Ian’s jacket curl for a breaths times before dropping, Mickey’s gaze flickering on his face, “Yeah,” he says, a tiny shake of his head from side-to-side, a hand coming up to rub at his lip, hiding his mouth when he says, “Why not.”

 

His gaze meets Ian’s for another second before he moves around him, ducking his head for a half-second as he leaves.

 

Ian turns around, watches him walk away, and stands stock still until Liam pats at his cheek, his nose, babbling _snow_ and _catch_ at him in that bright baby voice of his that reminds Ian he needs to get home.

 

So he takes a breath and hugs the baby a little closer and does.

 

 

II

 

 

“You know what he- you know what he fucking said to me one day?”

 

Mandy’s smiling already, “Something true, no doubt.”

 

They weren’t going to the Gallagher house. They didn’t even need to talk about that shit; there was only so much of that happy family bullshit that they could swallow and the fact that the little one was _inviting_ people told them all they needed to know.

 

The fucking _cheer_ was going to be dialed to red alert.

 

Mickey had come home from his Gallagher encounter with the need to get blasted; so he had. Sveltlana had been on her way out, had brushed a hand along his cheek in a friendly gesture he hadn’t shrugged off. They were both trapped in this shitty life so why _not_ be friendly (plus there was that kid; that maybe his kid).

 

He’d lit up when she’d gone, dropped down on the sofa, and glared at the darkened television until Mandy had stomped her way inside, shaking snow off her jacket.

 

_“Somebody piss in your cheerios or somethin’?”_

 

And he’d been high already; the house so fuckin’ quiet and Gallagher had that fucking _face_ with the _eyes_ and his fucking _wanting_ and Mickey’d just said it,

 

_“Ran into Gallagher—Ian.”_

 

And that’s how they’d gotten here. Wasted and talking about Ian Gallagher like Mickey had shot up estrogen for breakfast that day.

 

“What’d he say, fuckface?” Mandy prompts.

 

“He said- he told me that I- he said I was afraid to _kiss_ him,” he scoffs, “Can you fucking believe that? He said I was _afraid_ to…”

“Were you?”

“Fuck no,” he scoffs, “I wasn’t fucking afraid to kiss him, what fuckwit would be afraid to kiss somebody?”

 

“I’d put my money on your pussy ass.”

 

“Hey, hey, fu- ” he almost gets up, pushing up with one hand, the other almost dropping the joint, but wobbles half-way to straightening, “Fuck you - ”

 

“- sit your ass down,” Mandy rolls her eyes, reaching up to yank him back down. She turns her head towards him, blue eyes unfocused, pupils blown, but still intent, still serious, "Listen to me, you dickwad, yes you’re a fucktastic twat of a pussy, but it has fuck all to do with you being gay or fucking Ian Gallagher—s’actually one of your better moves in life—you're a pussy for letting him go and not putting a bullet through our old man’s head,” she frowns, eyes drifting, “But fuck. We’re all pussies for that,” she sighs, “We all got reason to do it and the bastard’s still just wandering around town like he’s mother fuckin’ theresa.”

Mickey blinks at her, because that’s a lot of fucking words, at any time, but right now especially; and then he laughs.

 

She laughs too after a moment; letting herself lean into him as the fit of laughter makes her weak, “Good mouth on’m,” she says easily, “Both of’m.”

 

“Wasn’t afraid to fucking kiss him,” Mickey defends. “Just fuckin’ __lines__ , you know?”

“Hm,” Mandy sighs. “No lines,” she says a little absently, because why would you want lines with Ian?

 

“Hey,” Mickey mumbles, remembering all of a sudden, “You done with that prick’s smug face? So I can beat it to a pulp now—with a crowbar...?”

 

He doesn’t specify, but he doesn’t have to.

Mandy’s mellow smile fades, her expression shifting. She scowls at the ceiling, “Ugh, __fuck_ _ him,” she says loudly, kicking her foot against the coffee table. It shakes, a couple weapons and a plastic cup clattering to the floor. Her glare shifts into an almost pout a breath later though and she mutters, “Fuck him,” almost petulantly.

 

“You ran over the wrong problem,” Mickey points out, smirking, “Shoulda rammed his gigantic head against the cement.”

The image flashes through Mandy’s mind suddenly and she smirks too, taking another drag, “Probably, yeah - ‘cept you know...”

 

Mickey waits for more, but she doesn’t offer it. He elbows her hard, “Know what?”

 

“Ow,” she frowns, kicks him in the leg, “You __know__.”

“The __fuck__ is everyone sayin’ that to me today?” He grouses.

And she turns her head to look at him, her cheek pressed against the back of the couch, “Everyone who?”

 

“Everyone,” he says again, rolling his eyes, and snatching the joint back. “You,” he mumbles, putting it between his lips as he makes a motion with his hand, “Firecrotch.”

 

It takes a second for Mandy to connect who he means by that and then she makes a gagging sound for a beat, ruins it by laughing half-way through; and he grabs her by the back of the neck, twisting and pinching her, muttering, __bitch__ with the joint still between his lips.

“Ow, ow, shithead! That fuckin’ - ” she knees him in the side, reaching over to yank the joint back, “Hurts.” She blows smoke in his face when she says, “Ian doesn’t know you know nothing.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

She laughs. “You’re supposed to know shit about people you give a shit about.”

 

“Who says I give a shit.”

 

And Mandy laughs again, like he made a real joke. “Whatever, Mick. Let us know when you pulled your head outta your ass.”

He shoots her a glare, “Yeah, yeah, gimme my fuckin’ weed back you cunt,” he makes a half-hearted lunge for it, but she pulls it back, smiling.

 

“So yeah. __You know,_ ” _she says again, jokingly.

 

He lifts an eyebrow at her, “That you’re still fuckin’ infatuated with that retarded prick?”

 

“He’s a ge.ni.us.” Mandy enunciates, handing the joint over now easily.

“Oh fuck me,” he rolls his eyes hard, taking it and glaring at her.

 

“It’d break their hearts,” Mandy points out, “The others.”

 

Mickey works that over in his head for a second and then takes another drag, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“If I painted the cement with Lip’s brain,” she explains reasonably, “Ian and Debbie... they’d be __sad__.”

_“_ Ian and Debbie,” Mickey echoes like he’s still not getting it.

 

“He’s their __brother_ ,_ Mickey, jesus.”

“Yeah yeah, obviously.” He’s pensive all of a sudden though, his gaze dropping to the floor, darkening, lips puckering downward. “Why the hell we’d fuck __two_ _ people from that goddamn family?”

Mandy looks over at him, staring for a beat, and it’s the expression on his face—like he’s legitimately looking for an answer, trying to think of one.

 

It makes her laugh again; feels it bubbling up from inside her and spilling out uncontrollably, almost hysterically. Because it’s so fucking obvious, so __clear_ _ that they’re __in love_ _ with these assholes and there’s nothing to __do_ _ about it except sit back and watch it steamroll over their lives.

 

“You’re a lunatic,” Mickey says, still serious; his head turned, watching her now, “You know that?”

She leans her cheek against his shoulder like she used to do when they were small enough to pretend it never happened, “I got some nitrous,” she tells him quietly.

 

And he glances at her, lets his head tip against hers lightly for a second. “Then why the fuck ain’t it out here,” he murmurs easily, the mood dissipating as quickly as it had appeared.

 

She laughs a little more then and staggers up to get it.

II

 

 

The tree’s standing in the middle of the Gallagher living room, branches weighed down by Debbie’s edible decorations and colored lights alit and tangled strung by Lip and Kev and cards drawn by Liam and Carl; red and green paper chain covering it tip to bottom, pieced together and strung by Ian and Fiona.

 

It’s massive, dominates the living room, and when Fiona makes everyone take pictures in front of it there isn’t one person that can help smiling.

 

 

II

Ian’s gaze is fixed blankly on the game in front him—Kev and Lip are trashed, caught up in a fierce battle of Jenga, Fiona and Vee cheering them on, joints and rolled cigarettes passing between them; the music turned up high and everyone’s cups full—when Debbie drops down next to him on the couch, “I think Kev’s finally giving up on beating Lip,” she says with a small smile, leaning into his shoulder.

 

He starts a little, shifting and looking over at her, “Think so?”

 

“Probably not,” she admits, smiling again. “How come you didn’t want to play?”

 

“How come _you_ didn’t?” Ian turns it on her.

 

“I did play, I played first against Vee and Vee won and she went up against Fiona, remember,” she lists. It's late now, Shelia's gone home and Liam's only awake because he's hyped up on sugar cookies and rice krispee treats, but Ian's been quiet all night, during dinner and the games and dancing too and Debbie’s sure they’ve all noticed it, but no one’s saying anything.

“Ah right, right,” he nods a little, “That was hours ago... bet you could beat Lip.”

 

“Bet you could too.”

 

He’s opening his mouth to respond when Carl slides into the living room, legs going under the table, hands up, “Earthquake attack!”

 

“Carl!” Lip huffs around his cigarette, reaching to punch the boy in the leg when he shakes the coffee table.

 

Carl evades, calls, “Liam throw the dinosaur!”

 

And the baby giggles, tossing the green toy high in the air.

 

“No!” Kev shouts, holds his arms out, “Not this game! I’m winning!”

 

There’s a moment of commotion as Liam runs from them and Lip holds Carl down, Fiona reaching out for her baby brother and Vee collapsing in a puddle of laughter on the rug.

 

Debbie giggles next to him, “It’s gonna fall...” she predicts a second before all the pieces crash down. Ian huffs a soft laugh, he’s had a smoke or two, a drink or two, and he feels mellow enough that the conversation out in the snow __( _ _Mickey’s eyes and voice and those fingers tightening around his jacket for just a second__ ) __feels distant somehow, a memory he can dwell on tomorrow.

_“_ You try now,” Debbie encourages, giving him arm a little squeeze; wanting to see him do something besides be quiet and sad.

 

But he just turns his head, smiling at her a little. “I’m kinda out of it, Debs,” he confesses to her quietly.

 

She looks at him for a beat, studying his face and then nods her head, slipping an arm around him in a hug, “That’s okay,” she says just as quietly.

 

It's a clingy gesture, the kind that doesn’t happen all that often with his little sister anymore, but Ian’s okay with it; lets his cheek rest against her hair as they watch the new game being set up.

 

Fiona looks over at them with a bright smile, holds the camera up and snaps a picture before either of them can move and then points to the game. They both shake their heads, but when she holds a cup up, nodding encouragingly, Ian reaches a hand out for it—he’s not going to cap his liquor consumption tonight.

 

Lip passes it along to him, offering him a drag too, and Debbie leans back, watching them; settles back against Ian’s side when he leans back with the cup in his hand.

Carl’s hunkered down by the end of the sofa, a straw in his hands, eyes trained on the Jenga tower they’re assembling—spitballs ready.

 

And it's when he starts shooting them and everyone starts shouting again that Debbie tilts her head up a little, looking at Ian, “They didn’t come,” she murmurs.

 

Ian’s watching Vee run interference for Kev, trying to block Carl, who’s shooting through any gap he can, wonders absently, “Who didn’t come?”

 

And Debbie takes a breath, “I... told Mandy, about dinner...” she admits, then ducks her head again, adds more quietly, “And Mickey.”

 

Ian goes entirely still, the noise around him fading, zoning out because Debbie’s telling him this for one reason, only one reason—because she put the pieces together too. He blows out a breath. “Debs.”

 

“I just thought... it might be nice.” She explains like it’s something normal; shrugging very slightly against his side.

 

And it makes something ache inside him, something uncoil in relief. “For who?” He asks.

“For... you? Maybe? Or Lip... I guess. I don’t know. For Mandy too. She was here a lot this year, you know? And... Mickey, maybe... if he didn’t want to be alone.” She glances up at him for an instant, meeting his gaze for a breath, “’cause his wife isn’t there,” she adds, dropping her gaze again.

 

Ian stills again, because ___jesus__. _ He swallows hard, “Debbie...”

 

“Don’t be mad...” she murmurs.

 

His throat feels tight when he says, “I’m not,” quietly and loops his arm around Debbie’s shoulders slowly; he’s not mad, it just hurts, “I’m not mad,” he sighs.

She nods a little, wordless, and he pulls her a little closer, gives her a tight hug, pressing a kiss against her hair firmly. “You’re a sweetheart, Debs,” he says fiercely.

 

And she shuts her eyes, squeezing him back; because she wasn't trying to be, she was trying to make him happy again.

 

 

II

 

 

Lip finds her sitting on the railing of the back porch, feet dangling, a beer in one hand, and eyes fixed out onto the darkened street. It’s cold and she’s not wearing anything but a sweater, but he doesn’t comment, lets the door shut behind him with a bang before he goes to stand next to her.

 

“You done with Christmas?” He asks dryly. There’s still music on inside; Vee had started a game of twister and they can hear the laughter dimly even out here.

 

Fiona smiles absently, not looking at him. “Good one, isn’t it?”

 

“Sure,” he says, his voice tinged with sarcasm now, “’Cept for people missing and Frank’s bullshit... and the past week... past month.”

 

“Debbie still had fun. Carl... Liam,” she murmurs. “We took a lot pictures.”

 

And Lip’s got to give her that, “The pictures’ll look great.”

She nods a little, takes a slow sip of her beer.

 

It’s more than that though and they both know it. Nights like tonight, lit-up bright and deafening with laugher, they’re the ones that stick out—the ones you hold on to when everything’s gone too dark and too still.

 

He pulls a pack out of his pocket, plucking a cigarette out; leans forward, elbows on the railing, his eyes fixed on the street below them too.

 

“You know if Tony the cop’s got a girlfriend these days?” He asks, cigarette between his lips as he lights it.

 

Fiona doesn’t react for a moment, working that question over in her mind. ___Tony the cop__. “_ Don’t know,” she admits after a beat of silence; not really surprised that Lip was lining up the Terry Milkovich set-up without her.

 

He blows a plume of smoke out slowly, doesn’t look over at her. “Might wanna get friendly with’m again.”

She presses her lips together, then lifts her beer up, taking another slow drink. “That so?”

 

“Nothing serious—get on his radar, no one else’s.”

 

That’s a fine line on a tight rope, but it's nothing a Gallagher hasn’t done before. “How long?”

 

His lips quirk around the cigarette, “Oh you’ll know when it’s done.”

 

“Details, Lip.” Her voice quiet, barely a demand.

 

“Just need us an informant,” he offers, “Keep an eye things.”

 

“What things?”

He’s quiet and there’s a loud huff of laughter from inside; Carl’s it sounds like, Debbie’s following it, muffled words and Liam’s giggle.

 

Lip’s gaze is still on the snow-covered lawn below them. “I have new connections since the last time I tried to pull this gig,” he admits, turning his head to look at her. “Could work something out.”

 

“Lip,” she murmurs, sounding tired all of a sudden; exhausted. She looks over at him, presses her lips together tightly to keep them from wobbling, blinks at him with eyes that are abruptly wet—Jimmy’s absence and Frank’s mess and Ian’s hurt and Debbie’s anger and his decision all shining in them.

 

And Lip holds her gaze, it’s been a long, long time since he’s looked away from Fiona’s tears; these days it almost feels like he __needs_ _ to see them—proof this life wore her down too.

 

“From when I stayed with Jimmy,” he continues, like that’s all that’s out between them, like that’s all that’s put that sheen in her eyes; waits for the flicker of hurt to cross her face at Jimmy’s mention and continues when it passes, “Need a body and a weapon and he could provide one or the other.”

She swallows hard, looks away, rubbing at her face, muttering a quiet _fuck_ against her fingers. “That’s stupid,” she says finally, “We want Terry arrested, not you dead.”

 

“Oh is that- is that what we want?” He says sardonically, blows out a ring of smoke.

 

Fiona takes a deep breath, “Lip - ”

 

“It’s tangential enough to keep me out of it.” He takes a long drag. “All of us.”

 

“God,” she breathes, hanging her head a little.

“We could just put a hit out on him.” He says when she doesn’t say anything more.

 

She tilts her head towards him after a long moment, glancing at him, “Out of our price range.”

 

And their gazes hold for a moment; neither of them entirely sure if the other is kidding or not, so they both drop it.

 

“Set it up,” Fiona sighs. “I’ll call Tony tomorrow. Wish’m a happy holiday.”

 

Lip nods once, dropping the cigarette butt on the porch floorboards and snuffing it out with his boot.

 

Fiona turns towards him then, fingers wrapping around his wrist, dark eyes looking at him intently for a moment before her other hand comes up, fingers digging into his hair and tugging his head towards her in a hug.

 

He puts an arm her waist, letting her have what she needs from this; holding still and and maybe a little stiff, but there and quiet, letting the sounds from inside, the happy voices and easy laughter, wash over both of them.

 

And in a minute, they'd be part of that—they'd play Twister with Kev and Vee and have another drink with Ian, laugh with Debbie, tickle Carl, carry Liam. In a minute they'd have happy voices and easy laughter too.

 

It’s Christmas, after all.

 

 

 

.the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end, finally. ;) I know there are things that aren’t resolved—the ~Terry plot is hatched, but not in motion and a lot of the relationships are in the air, but I was going for this fic being just a snapshot of something that could be. :) I hope everyone that’s read it has enjoyed it and thank you again to everyone that’s left kudos and especially everyone that’s left comments! This is my first shameless fic so I really appreciate it very much. 
> 
> Looking forward to Season 4!!! :)))


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